


The Prince & the Pauper

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Blacksmith John, M/M, Prince Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince Sherlock is married off to Blacksmith John Watson, veteran of the Ogre Wars, he is sure that it's the last thing he could have wanted. John isn't too crazy about it either, stifled by upper class expectations and by the cold, distant man he's married. But when a plot is uncovered against the royal family, casting doubts on the succession, murder at the hands of one dissident James Moriarty, and threatening the Holmesian dynasty's right to rule, John may be the only person Sherlock can trust. And a marriage of convenience may become something far more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wedding

It was like a picture out of a fairytale. The light filtering in through the windows was white, matching the white of the marble tile, the white of the linen tablecloths, and the white stone of the altar. John’s hair glinted like spun gold. Sherlock’s eyes were ultramarine one instant and pale green the next, as the light passed over them in turn. Every person in attendance sparkled like a jewel. This was not surprising, John noted, as indeed the guests’ collective stock of diamonds could feed and clothe an entire province. The two grooms in the prime of their youth stood stoic, the expressions on their faces casting an air of nobility. This was surprising for John, who was—as rumor had it—only a commoner.

When John took the prince’s hand to put the ring on it he noticed how very cold it was. It was the first time they had ever touched. He noticed that Sherlock very pointedly did not make eye contact, which was a shame; because in the portrait John had seen in the outer wings of the castle he remembered that his eyes were quite distinctive. While the royal preacher droned on and on about commitment, or new bonds or something of the sort John thought of another way this day, his wedding day, could have gone.

They would have married in the parish church of the village his father had grown up. After a journey by wagon into the country he would have married a nice girl, in the daydream her face was that of one Mary Morstan, who was too poor to be in attendance now. Afterwards they would have returned to the city, where he would have set her up in the flat on Baker Street above his smithy. But of course that wasn’t to happen now. Instead of the lovely Miss Morstan his betrothed was this cold, silent stranger. A cold, silent stranger whose freezing white hands had now slid a golden ring on John’s finger. A ring that was worth more than all the money John would earn in a lifetime as a blacksmith.

After the ceremony they stood together for what felt like hours, shaking hands and making polite talk with the bejeweled guests. John didn’t know anyone, and felt their eyes go up and down on his person, felt their quiet judgment even as their lips conveyed their congratulations. At dinner they sat together, yet even then they weren’t alone as various people made toasts and gifts were opened and titles were handed out. John was made a baron of some remote area he had never heard of. Sherlock was given a duchy of some area John had heard of once or twice. At the wedding in the country they would be square-dancing by now by the light of a fire. For all their money, John thought, the noblemen were dull.

It was only at the end of the evening, when the candles on the tables were blown out, the carriages called and the plumed headdresses put back on heads that John realized what was expected to happen. He was going to be alone with the prince. His husband, actually. Which was a strange thought if there ever was one.

“Don’t idle,” the young royal said as he turned a corner, his black cloak swishing in his wake.

John scurried after him, not quite sure where he was going, as he had never been this far within the castle before.

“Your highness—” John started to say.

“Sherlock, please,” the prince didn’t even turn around.

“ _Sherlock_ , don’t you think we should discuss this-this thing that’s very much happening,”

“What’s to discuss?” Sherlock ran up a flight of stairs, “In an effort to please the populace, I, the younger son, have been married off to a commoner I have nothing in common with. It’s hardly likely you have a problem with it. It’s not as if you could possibly do better than a prince of the realm.”

“Hey, you may be spectacularly rich, but I’m not completely okay with this either, it’s not all about money you know,” John snapped.

“Oh I know that, you were thinking of it the entire time at the altar, about her, some idiotic farm girl you were hoping to marry, your little smithy, if you hadn’t just returned from the Ogre Wars with a wounded leg you would have been content to work there your entire life, but the work is taxing on you now, you have a limp, at least partially psycho-somatic, you would go to your brother for help, but you’re not particularly close to him,” Sherlock strode down the hallway and threw upon the doors of the third room on the left.

“How did you possibly know that?”

“Ogre Wars? Well your accent’s changed slightly, it’s not exactly common anymore it has a bit of that Southern twang to it, you’ve been there and picked it up but you’ve been back here a while so it’s fading now, I’d say two to three months, you limp sometimes but not others, it’s too inconsistent, has to be psycho-somatic. The brother? You’re wearing his timepiece, only expensive thing you own. It was a gift. But he wasn’t at the wedding. So not close. As for the smithy, your hands, blacksmith’s hands. Obvious. And the girl, shot in the dark, but that besotted look you were making at the wedding was hardly for me. We’ve only just met,”

“Amazing,” John said the first thing that came to his mind.

“That’s not what people usually say, or well, think, they usually don’t _say_ anything, it’s a privilege of rank that I can get away with anything,” Sherlock turned to face him and as their eyes met for the first time John thought the portrait really didn’t do them justice.

“What do they usually think?”

“Piss off, or some variant,” Sherlock took off his cloak and hung it on a hook near the bed, “What’s wrong?”

“This room is the size of my entire flat in the city,” John said.

“This is one of the smaller ones in the palace, as I dislike open spaces,” Sherlock remarked, “Your things are already here. Good night.”

“That’s it then, we’re married and you don’t even want to talk about it,”

“Like I said, there’s nothing to discuss,” Sherlock said rather coldly, “Just a rather unfortunate situation I’ll learn to deal with in time. You on the other hand have the chance to be a part of high society, most people enjoy that sort of thing.”

“If you’re just going to insult me constantly—“

“You’re the one who wanted to talk,”

John sighed, “Fine. Fine then. We won’t talk. We won’t do anything about this.”

“Of course we’re not going to _do_ anything. Though of course you’re welcome to watch me undress,” Sherlock loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.

John, who couldn’t tell if the other man was being serious or joking, turned away, “I didn’t mean like that.”

As soon as he was done a few moments later Sherlock turned off the only light in the room, leaving John to undress in the darkness. John cursed aloud, hoping Sherlock could hear it; after all, he couldn’t possibly fall asleep that fast. He had only agreed to this marriage because his family needed the money. He was glad he had done it of course. But living with Sherlock was going to be a waking nightmare. He was one of the richest men in the country. But he was no Prince Charming. And this was no fairy tale.   

***

John tossed and turned the entire night. Rather angry at Sherlock for sleeping so peacefully a mere two feet away. They both faced away from each other, and John was spared any awkwardness related to waking up next to him by the fact that he was gone at the first light of day. There was a note on the ridiculously ornate bedside table and John was irked by the fact that Sherlock wrote in a perfect curved script.

_Down the first staircase to your right. Turn at the portrait of the man with a wart on his nose. When the carpet changes from scarlet to burgundy take a left. Past the first set of double doors is the kitchen._

John didn’t know whether to be thankful or upset that there was no indication as to where Sherlock was, or even a good morning. As he was hungry, he decided, thankful it is. The directions were remarkably easy to follow. And once in the kitchen he  asked the cook if she knew where the prince was as he had a bagel.

“His highness was here himself in the morning, said to tell you he’d be back in the evening, that you’ve got etiquette training today in the Green Room, I can show you where it is,” the woman said kindly.

“Did _his highness_ tell you where he was going?” John asked.

“It’s hardly my place to know or ask,”

***

“Don’t look at me like that, etiquette lessons were Mycroft’s idea,” Sherlock said when he came into their bedroom that night, “Strange, it’s pretty late, I was expecting you to be asleep,”

“Where were you all day?” John snapped.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize this was a real relationship where I’m at all accountable to you,”

“What am I supposed to do all the time then, hmm? Participate in stupid etiquette lessons while you prance around outside doing god knows what, and then be your arm candy at public events?”

Sherlock nodded, “That was the expectation when you entered into this arrangement. You didn’t think you’d be allowed to continue being a blacksmith living here. And I wasn’t _prancing_.”

“What were you doing then? While I was in here being taught about the different kinds of forks,”

“If you must know I had a case, and you’re complaining after a few hours, this is my _life_ , etiquette lessons, court functions, welcome to the other side!” Sherlock raised his voice.

“You know what? I’m not speaking to you, good night!”

“See how much I care. Good night!”

***

“Married life not suiting you?”

“Shut up Mycroft,” Sherlock paced about the room, “You said if I married him I could have a greater role in royal affairs,”

“I’m not letting you rule, not unless I die, and you could hardly pull that off,” Mycroft said smoothly.

“Then why…” Sherlock snapped, “Why have you chained me to some common oaf?”

“He’s far better than that and you know it,” Mycroft said, “It helps popular opinion. Besides. Get to know him. He might be good for you.”

“Good for me? He’s pining for his smith and his idiotic farm girl,”

“Is someone jealous? That’s touching, Sherlock,”

“I am not jealous,” Sherlock glared, “Only pointing out that my aspirations in life are not even vaguely aligned with his,”

“It’s been a week, give it another,”

“We haven’t been speaking, not really,” Sherlock explained.

“There’s a ball tomorrow evening, I’m going to need you to make nice, can you manage that?”

Sherlock bowed low, huffing sarcastically, “Of course, your will is law.”

“And you will do well to remember it.”


	2. The Palace Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a very good dancer. John makes up for it in other respects.

They had met once before. It was a crowded street, full of shouting people buying and selling wares. A fortune teller crouched in a corner with some street children. An old hag peddled magic amulets in the alleyway by the bakery. John had just made a fine longsword and was taking it to be delivered to the palace when he saw him. The prince was riding a white horse, which stood out like a sore thumb in the muck of the street. But it was strangely fitting in retrospect, as everything associated with the prince in John’s mind was a piece of winter. His skin white as snow. His hands icy to the touch, his demeanor even more so.

He had stopped in the middle of the street, too self important to realize he was blocking traffic, to ask John a question, “Do you know if a Chester Bletchley lives around here?”

John had bowed to him, as was custom, “He left for the war front, your highness,”

“And before he left, where did he live?”

John pointed to the inn in front of the bakery, “Had a room there if I’m not mistaken, sir,”

Hearing this the prince had cursed and galloped away, not caring that the horse kicked up the mud of the street on John’s clothes and on the cloth he had wrapped the sword in. It was a strange meeting. One that might have made for a decent story to tell at parties. Commoners did not often see the younger prince out and about. Sherlock had always been something of a curiosity. Supposedly sickly as a child, and now considered a potential rival to his elder brother for the throne.

He didn’t think Sherlock remembered this meeting. He hadn’t looked straight at him for the entire duration of the conversation, turning his nose up instead at the smell of the street and the people in true Sherlockian fashion. Then flounced away in typical aristocratic indifference.  But in John’s mind he remembered it as if it was yesterday. More for the sense of contrast to their current situation.

Then Sherlock had been just a prince on a fine white horse. Now what was he? Lying almost next to him in this bed. John had never imagined he would get this close to him. Close enough to see him breathing during the night, the only time he ever really looked calm.  Still so cold. Fair as snow. And in his waking hours as biting as winter’s chill. 

***

John never really got over how beautiful the palace really was. From the embroidery on the carpets to the dangling shaped glass of the chandeliers, perfectly catching the light. Of course admiration usually transitioned into silently deploring the inequality all this lavishness represented, still though, it was pretty grand at first sight.

“Four thousand mules,” Sherlock met him at the door to their bedroom.

“I thought we weren’t speaking, and why are you talking about mules?”

“You were wondering about the monetary value of the hallway chandelier, and as you’re probably more used to doing transactions by barter, the value in standard currency would be too high to be of any use to you,” Sherlock offered him his arm.

John couldn’t decide whether that was supposed to be an insult or not, “Still, why are you suddenly talking again? It’s been a pretty silent week,”

“It won’t do for us to give each other the cold shoulder, at least in public, that means we have to at least keep it civil in private, god haven’t he taught you anything about court etiquette yet?” Sherlock took John’s arm and forcefully linked it through his, “I trust he at least taught you about staircase entrances.”

“We spent the first few days on dining, and yeah he did, one arm on the railing, the other free to wave, always smile, but not too much, make eye contact with a few different people, all titled,” John said as they started walking.

“That’s one person walking down by himself, we’re a couple, and an important one, so we’re walking down together, that means one arm with mine, the other can rest at your side or wave,” Sherlock jerked them along, as his walking pace was slightly faster than John’s.

Once they were actually at the top of the staircase John was shocked to see Sherlock smiling, it was such an odd sight, but he should really do it more often, John thought in spite of himself, he really was quite handsome, “I didn’t know you could do that,”

“Of course I can, I have five different varieties, fake, content, pleased, excited and ecstatic,” Sherlock glanced at him, “You don’t have to bow your head when you see people by the way, you outrank everyone,”

“Is this content?” John asked, keeping his head upright.

“No, pleased, I can’t have them thinking I’m unhappily married,”

“You are unhappily married,” John pointed out.

“I never said that exactly,”

“Right no, you said it was an unfortunate situation, made rude remarks about common people and then went to bed, I remember our wedding night,” John said, all the while smiling.

“Now yours is definitely fake, work on that, and I’m not going to deny marriage has its advantages, I get far less attention from women,”

“I hadn’t thought of that, women don’t go after married men, thank you for that,”

“You hardly think I’d let you have affairs this early into our marriage, it would look like I’m not meeting your needs,”

“You aren’t meeting my needs,”

“Even so, if you must see women on the side I’d say wait at least a few months, that way it’ll look more like I’ve gotten bored of you, I can pay someone to pretend to be my mistress, and then a bout of jealousy can force you into the welcome arms of some scullery maid,” Sherlock rationalized.

“You’re really good at this,”

“A natural consequence of being groomed from the age of five, every so often laugh at something I said, image is everything,” Sherlock said coldly.

John laughed.

“That was terrible,” Sherlock said.

“You’re not being very entertaining,” John retorted.

“Fine then,” Sherlock stopped their walk around the ballroom suddenly, “Um. See that woman over there with the peacock feather hat?”

“Yes, I do,”

“That’s Lady Kettering. Normal looking noblewoman at first glance. But the jewels look second-hand. So fallen on hard times.  Why? Eldest son here but not youngest. Died in the Ogre Wars? Could be. But nobles manage to get their children out of the front lines. She’s been constantly taking messages from a runner. The runner’s always leaving from the Southeast exit, which suggests he’s going to the city. The boy’s probably at home. But why isn’t he here? Everybody’s here except four lesser ranked court ladies. Three I know to be ill, but the fourth? Hasn’t been seen for seven months. Family says she’s visiting relatives in the North. The Kettering’s have a substantial estate in the North. Obvious lies and other indications. She’s pregnant. The younger Kettering boy’s doing. And the family is now in disgrace.”

“Fantastic,” John smiled before realizing he was still supposed to be irked at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked a little taken aback, “Now that, that looked genuine, well done,”

John didn’t bother correcting him by pointing out the fact that it was genuine.

“Now, when the dancing starts, my brother and his wife will go first, they are the highest ranked couple as King and Queen, after Mycroft and Anthea we’ll go,” Sherlock looked at John concernedly, “You do know how to dance,”

“We went over it briefly, yesterday,”

“Follow my lead,” Sherlock said, “Shouldn’t be difficult. You’re bright for a blacksmith.”

“And that was almost a compliment, as snobbish rich people go, you’re almost tolerable,” John said as Sherlock suddenly focused his eyes on him and brought them into the center of the room.

“I thought you said we were after your brother,”

“I changed my mind, I re-calculated based on the fact that I just got married, and this is our first dance as a couple, pay attention, you almost stepped on my foot,”

“Yes, wouldn’t want to crush your ruby encrusted feet,”

“Sapphire,”

“What?”

“The shoes have sapphires on them,”

“Oh hell,” John sighed, “I was being sarcastic,”

“This isn’t a game,” Sherlock spun John around, “Everything we do, everything that happens here has profound repercussions, a majority of the wealth and power in the entire realm is concentrated in this very room,”

“And isn’t that terrible?” John asked.

“Maybe, but that’s the way things are, the only way there’s order,”

“Maybe it’s worth losing a bit of order,”

“You would risk saying that in a room full of the most powerful people you’ve ever met?” Sherlock asked.

“I would risk saying it, considering I’m married to the most powerful among them,”

“That’s charming,” Sherlock scoffed, “You think I would protect you,”

“Yes,”

“And why’s that?”

“If only to return the favor,” John said as he pulled them both to the floor and the arrow sailed over Sherlock’s head.

There was a general commotion in the back as armed guards tackled the lone assassin in the corner. Sherlock stared dumbfounded at John as noblemen ran every which way among them.

John could hear King Mycroft walking past them, no doubt to question the man with the arrows.

Sherlock’s eyes were still wide, “No dissident has come so far within the castle before,”

“Is that Holmesian for thank you?”

“How did you see him? How did you—“

“You learn to dodge arrows in war, Sherlock,” John patted him on the back, “And one more thing, you were wrong earlier, that timepiece did belong to my brother. And I’m not close to him. But that wasn’t why he didn’t come to the wedding. He’s dead. He died in the war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my own rule about weekly updates by posting this a BIT early. In my defense, I enjoy writing Johnlock.


	3. The Case of the Ogre Blood Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we see the first glimpses of a rare creature: actual PLOT.

“John, wake up!” Sherlock shook him.

“What the hell?”

“I didn’t get a chance to question him, he crushed a cyanide capsule in his mouth when he was captured, no one can tell who he is, he was going to kill me by a poisoned arrow, I know that much, but he also had a blade,” Sherlock said very quickly.

“I understand almost being assassinated is a very traumatic event, but couldn’t this have waited till morning?” John said drowsily.

“You’re a blacksmith,” Sherlock said brightly.

“This smile,” John laughed, “This is ecstatic, but I have no idea why,”

“You’re a blacksmith,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes,”

“Any good?”

“Very good,”

“Tell me everything you can about this blade,” Sherlock thrust it into his hands.

“They let you keep this?”

“I snuck it,” Sherlock admitted.

“Well, standard dagger, I always mark mine a very specific way about the hilt, so I didn’t make it. Um, going by the weight, this is an older style. No jewels. But it’s old—fifty years old at least. This design is far from contemporary. And the tip is tinged blue, permanently stained with ogre blood. That means it’s a relic—“

“From the last Ogre War. Sixty years ago. These were mass produced,” Sherlock finished.

“I’m sorry, how does that help you?”

“Data, John,” Sherlock got into bed, “More data always helps,”

“Right, good night then,”

“Um, John, about the other thing, earlier, that was um—good,”

“If you’re saying what I think you’re trying to say, it’s not a problem,”

Sherlock grunted in return. And as John watched the rise and fall of his chest he found himself wondering who the man really was. Besides being an oblivious arsehole. Besides being just a prince on a white horse.

***

To John’s utter surprise, for the first time since they were married, Sherlock was actually there in the morning. Staring at John who yawned as he sat up, and fastening on the black cloak.

“You can definitely read?” Sherlock asked.

“After we made so much progress last night you really want to go back to that,” John sighed.

“No, of course you can, you read the note I left the first morning,” Sherlock said, almost to himself, “No I just wanted to make sure. They want to get you more tutors. In Geography and Political Science and I was going to save you the embarrassment in case you couldn’t read, but no, you can, so it’s alright,”

“You wanted to save me the embarrassment? You wanted to do something nice for a human being that’s not yourself?” John scoffed.

“It’s been known to happen, besides, it’s not really entirely for your benefit, how badly would it reflect on me if you were revealed to be illiterate?”

“Hypothetically, what would you have planned to do if I couldn’t read?” John asked.

“I would have taught you myself,” Sherlock said, “As it happens. You’re in for a lovely day of staring at maps. Still, beats peasant labor. Damn, I did it again didn’t I?”

“I suppose that’s a great deal more fun than a day with you would have been,” John said.

Sherlock looked a tad bit hurt at that, so John decided to extend an olive branch, “Look, we didn’t get off to the best possible start. Would you like to start over? We might even be friends,”

“I’m a prince, I don’t have friends,”

“Colleagues then?” John offered, “Come on. I’ll try to tolerate the occasional quips about commoners and you can try to, well tone down the quips, if you can,”

“That’s acceptable, I’ll um, I’ll see you later then?” the cloak swished behind him as he left.

“Right, later,”

***

When Sherlock came home it was already dark.

“Any luck with the investigation?” John asked, turning away again as Sherlock undressed and got into the bed with him.

“No, I thought the Ogre Wars thing was a lead, but turns out not, I did investigate a nice murder though, unconnected to the assassin, why did you stay up?”

“I spent the entire day looking at maps and studying the geopolitical history of places I didn’t even know existed,” John explained, “I was bored,”

“They didn’t teach you all this in school?”

“I didn’t go to school,” John admitted.

“How did you learn how to read? Where did you learn how to be a blacksmith?” Sherlock asked, as they both looked up at the mural on the ceiling.

“I taught myself how to read, and you don’t go to school to become a blacksmith, you’re someone’s apprentice, and then you get admitted to a guild,” John explained, “You didn’t know that? Don’t you know everything?”

“Common peoples’ affairs don’t interest me, right, pretend I didn’t say that,”

“That’s your quip for the night,”

“How does this work exactly? I get one rude comment per conversation?”

“Hmmm,” John considered, “Let’s make this interesting, for every quip you make, you have to tell me something about yourself,”

“Leave it to a peasant to suggest a deal like that,”

“Sherlock,”

“No, doesn’t count,” Sherlock protested.

“Of course it counts, why wouldn’t it count?”

“Astronomy is my worst subject, I refused to memorize the star charts, and to this day, can’t tell you anything about it,”

“Why is that a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal for the nobility, astronomy, astrology, fortune telling, they’re really big on that,”

“You know the basics right? The sun revolves around the Earth. The Earth is flat.”

“I honestly don’t see why it matters,”

“ _It doesn’t matter?_ ” John said incredulously.

“I believe that’s what I meant, now, good night, or whatever you poor people say to each other when you want to turn in,” Sherlock said.

“You did it again,”

“We sleep in this room because the mural on the ceiling shows the stabbing death of one of my ancestors, in addition to my distaste for open spaces,”

“Lovely,”

“Isn’t it?”

***

“You’re never here in the middle of the day,” John was sitting at the desk in the bedroom, looking over a map.

“We’re going out,”

“I can’t, I have to study this for tomorrow, know every province and sub-province,” John said, “Besides, you never take me with you,”

“Let me see that,” Sherlock said, “I’ll help you with it tonight, but you have to come. You’re a soldier,”

“Okay,”

“Seen some injuries in the wars, violent death, lots of gore I bet,”

John nodded.

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh god yes,”

***

“They’re just going to let us out?” John asked as he followed Sherlock out onto the grounds.

“Of course not, there’s a secret passage I use in the greenhouse,”

“Of course there is,”

“Aren’t you afraid the people you meet out there might be your enemies? Without the guards to protect you?”

“I’m very adept with a sword, you should come watch me practice some time, besides, now I have you, I’ll trust you’ll be just as vigilant as you were the other night,”

“I don’t even have a blade,” John said as one was thrust at him, “Hey, I made this one!”

“Then you’ll appreciate your own handiwork,”

They climbed through a trapdoor in the ground and emerged from what John had always thought was an abnormally clean sewer drain.

“You’re not afraid anyone’s going to recognize you,”

“I’m not dressed like the prince this time, but sometimes it works to my advantage, besides common people are remarkably slow at things like this,” Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled them to the wall of the street.

“Sherlock,”

“Right, um, my real name is William,” Sherlock said, “I have got to stop doing that—oh look there’s our contact,”

A hooded man had just stepped forward from an alley. Great, John thought, not spooky at all.

“You have the body?” Sherlock asked.

The man nodded.

“It turns out,” Sherlock said, “A second man, not of noble birth, was found stabbed, the blade, nearly identical to the one the assassin was carrying,”

They walked through the darkened alleyway until John could make out the outline of the body. Flies circled around it, and it was already caked with mud.

“Where was he stabbed?” John kneeled down next to it.

“Lower stomach,” the hooded man’s voice was deep, unnatural.

John moved some of the mud aside, “This was a deep wound, he was probably standing close to the assailant,”

“He died instantly, it’s not simply tainted with ogre blood, it had ogre blood on it,” Sherlock said, “John you go left, I’ll go right, meet back at the greenhouse, lock the drain entrance, this man has been lying,”

Hearing this John darted off in the direction Sherlock had suggested, thanking his knowledge of these streets for the fact that he knew the quickest way to get back to the drain. He wasn’t so sure about Sherlock however, but he trusted him at this point to have a plan. The hooded man it seemed, had been keener to run after Sherlock than him.

After taking a detour through the market, John jumped into the passage and locked the entrance once he saw one of Sherlock’s many rings on the floor. Taking in his hands he ran back to the greenhouse, gasping for air.

“I should have seen that coming, I wonder if Mycroft knows,” Sherlock paced about between the plants.

“That was clever, dropping your ring to tell me you’d already come,” John said.

“It was quite a chase, I had to double back a few ways to lose him,” Sherlock said, “He was really persistent. But why me? I’m not even the heir,”

“Hostage?” John suggested.

“If they wanted a hostage they could take you, well, we can’t take the sewer exit again, that’ll be watched,”

John suddenly started to laugh.

“What?”

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,”

Sherlock laughed as well, “And you invaded the Ogerian Desert,”

“That reminds me, provinces,”

“It’s easy enough to memorize, and you might have bigger problems soon,”

“Such as?”

“My life is in danger now, and by extension, yours,”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fic writing is a constant battle between fluff and plot. Guess which one usually wins?


	4. Fencing Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to watch Sherlock fence. He really wishes he hadn't.

John was really proud of himself for being able to navigate the various wings of the castle with confidence now. Two weeks in. And he had only gotten lost once this morning. After their little escapade with the Ogre Blade Sherlock had shown him his own map of the castle, complete with secret exits and interior pathways marked, and using it John had a much better idea of where everything was.

Last night they had stayed up pretty late looking at it. Sherlock was obviously very proud of this elaborate map, and had been quite pleased with himself when John had been impressed with it. So pleased in fact that at one point whilst John was reciting a pathway to the armory from memory and getting it wrong he had taken John’s finger in his hand and traced it along the correct route. It was the single most intimate contact they had had since being married. And pathetic though that was. At least it was progress.

Today afternoon John was hoping to take it just a bit further. The friendship that is. He wasn’t expecting anything more to ever be on the table. Sherlock had told him once that he was good at fencing. Had invited him to come watch. So he would.

But he really wished he hadn’t. If Sherlock was winter at all other times. Here he was summer. First of all, to John’s great shock upon reaching the grounds, he fenced with his shirt off. Second of all, he was sweating. John hadn’t even realized that ice people could sweat. He was so drenched in his own sweat in fact that his black curls, normally frozen still, dripped with moisture and clung to his forehead and the whole thing should have been disgusting but it was just really, really hot. It shouldn’t be such an inconvenience for a person to think their own husband to be really, really, for the sake of all that is holy, good looking. But John couldn’t think like that. He needed to be his friend first. If anything. Third of all, John hadn’t expected him to actually be good. Decent maybe. What with all the princely training. But he was just making it look easy. Which was unfair. Fourth of all, he had stopped and was now walking towards John. Why was he walking towards John?

“Are you lost again?”

“No,” John said quickly, “Not lost. Not at all.”

“Okay,”

“You’re. You’re not wearing a shirt.” John said and then wished he hadn’t.

“People sometimes don’t wear shirts when they fence. Is that not a thing for peasants?”

“Peasants don’t fence. We toil and die of plague. And pay taxes that pay for the shirt you’re not wearing,”

“You do realize when we sleep together in the same bed, I’m usually not wearing a shirt either,”

“I know, yeah, I do, and you made a quip earlier, about peasants, so come on,” John reddened at the phrase _when we sleep together_ and hoped Sherlock would blame it on the sun.

“Right, um, thing about me. God it’s hot. Well. It’s not really about me. Sort of. I found one of the swords you made in our armory and decided to try it out. It’s…not bad.” Sherlock admitted.

“It has my mark? The W? Were you using it when you were over there?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was. If there’s not anything else then. I should be going back,”

“Right,” John nodded, “I have things to do too. Today we’re doing horse riding,”

 “Be gentle, a horse isn’t like metal, you don’t bend it to your will, you guide it,”

“You’re also a horse-whisperer?”

Sherlock laughed. And was about to say something else but the other noblemen were calling to him, and by the time he turned back around to John he was gone.

***

Sherlock had been lying before. John’s sword wasn’t just good. It was very good. So lightweight. The edges were sharp. It fit perfectly in his hand. He didn’t think he would ever use another blade again. He would never let him know however, that simply wouldn’t do.

As he walked back to their bedroom, which had quite recently become _their_ bedroom in his mind as opposed to _his_ bedroom that he was forced to share with some peasant, he felt sure he heard some activity in the hallway adjacent. That was odd. It was a bit late.

He stopped walking and pressed closed to the wall to listen.

“Leave the youngest, go for the other one,” a low voice said.

“That’s not the plan,” a woman’s voice replied, frightened.

“Forget the plan, he knows, he saw the blade, it’s only a matter of time,”

“I’m taking this up with him,” she insisted.

“Your funeral,”

Sherlock strode over there, sword extended, ready to confront these whisperers but by the time he was standing where he had heard the sounds coming from they had vanished. As if into thin air. That was odd. Extremely odd. No footsteps in the distance. No trace. There were people working this plot inside the castle. _Go for the other one_. The other one? John?

He ran past startled servants and up the stairs. Then threw open the door to the third bedroom on the left.

“Did you run up here?” John asked, reading a book in bed.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, panting at the entrance.

“I’m fine. Are _you_ alright?” John raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been better. Um. I’ll tell you after I process.” Sherlock closed the door and bolted it shut and then joined John on the bed, “Um. How was horse riding?”

“I saw Volta, your white horse, quite a fine steed,”

“How do you know that’s my horse?”

“You were riding her when we first met,” John said.

“We first met at the wedding,” Sherlock said, “Wait. Oh. That was you? On that dirty street? With all the chicken sellers?”

“That’s two quips. It happens to be where I live. And yeah, it was me.”

“Can’t have been. I would have remembered you,” Sherlock insisted.

“I can’t decide if that’s a compliment,”

“Two more things? Well Volta was a gift from our cousins overseas. I ride a white horse because Mycroft rides a black one.”

“That competitive? And can you tell me why you ran up here?” John asked.

“Overheard a conversation, thought something might be up,”

“And is it?”

“No, it appears that’s not the case, it must have referred to something else, I’m quite tired actually, tomorrow we’ll investigate a few leads,” Sherlock yawned.

“Right, alright,” John closed the book, noting all the stuff Sherlock hadn’t said. After all, he had thought something was up and ran straight here. He had thought John was in danger. And he hadn’t missed a second. Now that. That was progress. They might be friends yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again. Wasn't planning on updating so soon. But this one just writes itself.


	5. A Trip to the Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft insists that they go on their honeymoon Sherlock knows it's a ploy to get him out of the capital. And what's more, he hast to convince the nobility that his marriage to John is not exactly what it is, a farce.

“Bad news, we’re going on our honeymoon, as if anything worse could possibly happen, and now this,” Sherlock sighed as he sank into bed the next night.

“Not that’s not everything a man wants to hear from his husband, but can I ask why? Besides the obvious?” John asked.

“Oh it’s not you, idiot, no, it’s obviously a ploy to get me out of the palace,” Sherlock griped, “With me gone all hell could break loose,”

“Yes, because you’re the linchpin of this entire government operation,”

“We’re going to visit three major cities, that could take a week, maybe two, that’s like _years_ in political time,” Sherlock sat up.

“Who’s making us go?”

“Mycroft wants me out of the way, and he wants to legitimize this marriage for the public, wouldn’t want the bumbling masses to catch wind of the fact that it was all a public relations stunt,” Sherlock said bitterly.

“Ahem,”

“Oh fine. Um. I’m scared of spiders,”

John sniggered.

“Shut up,”

“No,” John said laughing, “You’re a grown man and you’re scared of an insect,”

“Arachnid,”

“Even so,”

“It’s unnerving,” Sherlock explained, “All the legs.”

“And corpses aren’t unnerving?” John asked.

“Not the same thing at all,”

“Well goodnight, I’ll make sure none come and bite you in your sleep, they’re probably crawling around all over the place,” John blew out the table lamp.

Sherlock glared, and his eyes were lit up by the moonlight, “There are no spiders here,”

“Not to worry darling, even if there are, I’ll protect you, with my very life if necessary against this dangerous foe,”

“Shut up,”

***

The next day Sherlock shook him awake early, it was barely light outside, and he was pacing about the room, pulling at his own clothes.

“I can’t tell,” John sat up, “Are you a morning person?”

Sherlock stopped his agitated strides across the room, “Generally yes, but something’s not right here. I can feel it. I shouldn’t go. But he won’t let me stay. Damn him. Damn it all.”

“Hey,” John said gently, “It’ll be fine. You’ll be back here before you know it.”

“I’m going to go check on our carriage, get dressed. We’re going to Brighton first.”

***

A half hour later John was bemoaning his stiff collar and ridiculous feathered hat to Sherlock as they climbed into the carriage together.

“It’s not so bad John, it’s a decent look for you,” the other man smirked.

“Why can’t I wear a crown like you?” John asked.

“Royal born,” Sherlock tapped at the metal of his own, “You’ll only get one if I get crowned king. Which is hardly likely.”

“When I was—well before all of this when I was working we used to hear rumors all the time that you were making a bid to alter the succession,” John confessed.

Sherlock said nothing.

“I trust you were unsuccessful?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock stared out the window, “Dear god what are they doing?”

“Well, here we see a prime example of working class people earning a living,” John scooted closer to Sherlock.

“No I know that, it looks like there’s been an incident at the pub, they’re carrying out bodies on stretchers,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Bar fights happen all the time,”

“Could be something more,”

“Would you relax? We only left the palace grounds a few minutes ago,” John insisted, “Think about something else.”

“Like what? That disastrous hat?” Sherlock laughed.

“Don’t tempt me to put a spider in your bed,”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock’s tone was suddenly serious.

“Only because I’m not crazy about them either,”

Sherlock looked outside intently, touching his fingers to the window, eyes widening from time to time as he surveyed the people outside. He watched how they worked. How they moved in packs, their varying dialects. It was all so fascinating.

“You’ve never really _seen_ them have you?” John realized.

“Of course I’ve seen them,”

“But not this close, not when you didn’t have anything else to do but think about them, their lives,” John pointed out.

“They look happy,” Sherlock said confusedly.

“Shouldn’t they be?”

“They look happier than I’ve ever seen the nobility look, it doesn’t make sense,”

“Money isn’t everything,” John said, and Sherlock froze.

“But they’re so ignorant!” Sherlock exclaimed, “A majority don’t read. They don’t know what’s going on beyond this particular town most of the time. They don’t know that they’re likely to die from plague, poverty or malnutrition. And they’re just walking around—happy!”

“They have their lives, their families, that’s what they care about,” John said defensively, “And Sherlock, that was at least three.”

Sherlock sighed, “Do we have to do this?”

“Until you realize you can’t just chastise and stereotype an entire segment of the population, yes, we have to do this,” John snapped.

“Really? Sherlock raised his voice a bit, “Would you enjoy that? More about my life? That’s all you peasants think of us as right? Curiosities to ogle at. Something to talk about while drinking whiskey on the farm.”

“It’s better than what royals think of peasants as,”

“Yeah? What do we think of peasants as that’s worse?”

“Cattle,” John’s tone was stinging.

They were quiet a bit after that. The only sound in the carriage was the clip clop of the horses’ hooves and the general bustle and noise of the people outside. The pitter patter of the rain that was just beginning to fall. John couldn’t believe it. He was silently furious at how close minded and arrogant Sherlock was. He had thought he was finally getting through to him. But no. Royals could never see past their own inherent superiority. He had been a fool for trying. Sherlock would never understand.

“I was sick a lot as a child,” Sherlock looked out the window, which was starting to fog up, “They didn’t think I would live past the age of ten. Accordingly that meant that I didn’t get out very much. I saw the same set of tutors every day. Had books brought to my room. Lunch and dinner on silver trays. And you’ll find this funny. Soup with a literal silver spoon. I got so bored I asked for a violin teacher. I play sometimes when I’m thinking. Um. Well. My parents were away on royal engagements almost all the time, Mycroft busy being groomed as the obvious successor, so…I…um wasn’t ever very family oriented at all. I’m guessing that’s why I’m less than sympathetic to those pea—townspeople we saw out there. Let’s see. Not a lot of people know this. So I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself. The reason my bid for the succession was unsuccessful was because Mycroft threatened to reveal that I was illegitimate. Not the son of the king but the bastard son of the former stable boy. An unverified allegation,  but I’ve been told the man can be brought to testify and the resemblance is unfortunately quite striking. Right. That’s four.”

“You might not be--?” John started, dumbfounded.

“Don’t like to talk about it, there’s a limited probability though, yes,” Sherlock admitted.

“Wow,” John said simply.

“What?”

“You might be common,”

“By marriage I already am,”

***

When they arrived at the residence of Lady Iris and Sir Daniel Leeshan it was almost dark. They followed the red brick path to an impress ivy covered manor house, waiting for their hosts on the expansive porch. Crickets chirped in the night and the smell of wet earth and lavender blooms filled the air. When the noblemen came out they seemed flustered, bowing deeply to Sherlock and then hesitantly to John, showing them inside and asking repeatedly if their journey had been comfortable.

There were several more members of the nobility inside, many it seemed had come to the youngest royal couple in Brighton, and unfortunately the manor was large enough to house them all. Luckily enough Sherlock managed to excuse them both to go to bed early for the long day tomorrow, as John did not feel up to managing an entire room of aristocrats.

John noted how close Sherlock stayed to him around them, the way he directed John around by touching his back, then drew his hand back slightly just as they were alone and out of earshot.

“They think the marriage is a farce,” Sherlock whispered as they made their way up the stairs.

“Is that what all the touching is about?”

“Yes, and this,” Sherlock said once they reached the landing, pushing John against the wall, one arm planted just over his head and the other barely touching his waist, crowding into his space until their foreheads were almost touching.

John’s heart began to race. Was Sherlock going to kiss him? He was just about close enough to do so. John was close enough to count his eyelashes.

“Oh, your highness!” a woman exclaimed.

“Lady Iris,” Sherlock blushed seemingly on cue and ran his hand fetchingly through his hair, “I trust you won’t tell anyone of this incident,”

“Of course not your grace, I swear upon the honor of my house, I shan’t tell a soul, not even one,” she put her hand on her chest.

“Thank you,” Sherlock nodded, and waited for her to walk away.

Then he turned to John and smiled, “She’s going to tell everyone and their mother,”

“You’re a bad man, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, his heart still thumping in his chest.

“Fun though isn’t it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, that’s definitely how I would describe it,” John came to the top of the stairs and walked ahead of Sherlock to their room, “This one?”

“As prince I always get the largest room,”

John rolled his eyes, “I honestly should have known,”


	6. Pillows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have fun times in the bedroom. Hint: it's not what it sounds.

John did not recall a night he had slept so well. He remembered initially tossing and turning, it was so warm in this room and the sheets themselves were so heavy. He remembered finally getting some relief when had collapsed and held on to something refreshingly cool. His sleep addled brain had not registered what that something was at the time. But now that the birds were chirping and sunlight streamed through the window he was quite mortified to discover that the thing whose wonderful coolness had been such a sanctuary the night before was Prince Sherlock. This was not good.

He had never actually been so close to him when they were awake, fundamentally different mindsets and Sherlock being an ice man/prick being the main two factors behind that. But now to his utter shock John found his arm thrown across Sherlock’s bare chest—John registered another mental shock as he recalled that Sherlock slept without a shirt. Sherlock for his part, had an arm curled around John as well, and from its relative position it looked at least that (subconsciously or not) when John had rolled over to him he hadn’t pushed him away like any sensible person in their situation might do—but had actually brought him closer. Oh god why. And then another problem. How was he possibly going to get out of this without waking Sherlock up? Their relationship was precarious as it is. Add an incident like this. The consequences could be disastrous.

Before John took any action though, he paused momentarily to note that Sherlock smelled, really, really great. Oh sweet hell. Why did he have to go and do this? Sherlock stirred in his sleep and John thought fast. There had to be something he could do. Ah yes, the secret weapon. It wasn’t that good of a plan. And possibly not the nicest thing he could have done. But it would have to do.

“Sherlock there’s a spider in your hair!” John shouted and extricated himself in a fluid motion.

Sherlock got up in a frenzy, and exactly as John suspected, was too preoccupied by the possible arachnid presence to note that John had been on his side of the bed, “Here? Oh in god’s name this place has really gone to the dogs! Quick is it still there? John?”

But John had collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“John,” Sherlock said sternly, “Do shut up.”

“Is that a royal decree your highness?” John smirked, still laughing.

“John, are you really immature enough to play a trick like that?” Sherlock snapped.

“You should have seen your face,”

“Shut up, do you not listen to me when I’m speaking? I said to shut up,”

“Make me,”

“Maybe I will,” Sherlock grabbed a pillow off the bed and hit him with it.

As any rational adult would respond in this scenario, John grabbed the pillow from his side of the bed and hit Sherlock right back.

Sherlock hit him hard in the side and leapt off the bed to avoid John, taking the sheet with him in the process. John got up after him and was soon chasing a sheet wrapped Sherlock around the bedroom with a pillow.

“Why are we doing this?” Sherlock almost knocked over a fancy table lamp.

“I don’t know I always thought you deserved a little knock to the head,” John remarked.

“Well you’ve clearly had far too many,” Sherlock darted over the bed and John leapt after him again.

“At least I’m not scared of spiders,”

“At least I—I oh forget it’s too early in the morning,”

“Too early?” John smirked, “Too early for the Holmesian snark? I thought you operated at all hours?”

Sherlock laughed, turning around just then to hit John over the head, which caused them both to lose their balance, John collapsing on top of Sherlock, propping himself over the other man with his hands pressed to the floor on either sides of him.

“Looks like I win,” John panted.

“Amazing, the Holmes’ haven’t lost a single land battle for nearly two centuries,” Sherlock laughed, and John thought he could never tire of the sound.

“Not to worry, your reputation is safe, I am a Holmes now by technicality,” John said, and quickly noted their current position and pushed himself up until he was sitting up to Sherlock’s side.

“Oh thank god, if Mycroft thought I’d lost the family honor he would put me on probation forever,”

“Probation?”

“Living out in the country like a simpleton, no access to court politics, any news, such a waste of my talents, that life might be good for commoners, not for me,”

“Sherlock,”

“I’m running out of things, I can’t think of anything right now, can it wait?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh come on, and it has to be something good, because that was bad,”

“I had a really strange dream last night, I was out in an open field, and it was warm, really warm, I haven’t slept this well in weeks,” Sherlock explained.

Ah great, John thought, that made the whole accidentally-cuddled-him thing so much worse, “You don’t say,”

“Think it means anything?”

“Naah,”


	7. The Staircase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock surprises John. So John decides to surprise Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John asked, “Why the hell do these shirts lace up in the back. Men aren’t supposed to wear corsets.”

“It’s not a corset. It’s the latest style. You’re lucky you weren’t around in the pantyhose years.”

“Still, Sherlock, I can’t get this.” John sighed, “I’ve just about had it with nobles and their idiotic—ugh you would think I would be able to tie up my own shirt.”

“I’m done with mine, can I turn around?” Sherlock asked, “I could help you.”

“Um, okay,” John said after a pause, “Just don’t strap me in too tight would you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock said silkily, turning around and walking over to the other side of the bed, taking the laces in his own hand.

John felt the brush of his cool hands on the skin of his back, and enjoyed it a little too much. As Sherlock deftly worked his way to the bottom he pulled one knot too tight and before he realized what he was doing placed a hand on John’s bare back as he pulled it loose. John held his breath for a second. That was new.

But Sherlock quickly finished out the rest, turning around swiftly, and clearing his throat, “Well that’s one problem solved.”

“What next?” John asked.

“Lunch with the men of the court.”

***

“So John, how did you happen to meet the prince?” a thick set man with a receding hairline and a rich scarlet cloak asked, sounding suspicious.

John faltered for a second, mixing his attempts at a response with a mixture of ums, and wells.

But within a moment’s notice, Sherlock had intercepted the question, “It’s quite a charming story actually. My husband doesn’t like to tell it, he’s quite modest in his way. I was in town on horseback looking for one Chester Bletchley.”

John almost spat out his drink.

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, “I had no idea where the man might live, so I asked a blacksmith who was carrying some fine swords whether he knew. He told me Mr. Bletchley had left for the war front, though naturally at that point I was less concerned with the affairs of Bletchley and more with the man. They were fine blades, very fine, and as an accomplished swordsmen I asked to see them and was even more impressed by how very light they felt. I thought to myself, now this was a man worthy of being consort for a king. And of course we hit if off right away. I got off the horse, we got to talking. Yes, admittedly there was some resistance from my parents, my brother in particular. But once we realized the value of a common _perspective_ on royal affairs they realized what an advantageous match it would be. The rest of course is history.”

Sherlock looked at John, as if nailing his point in, “It wouldn’t have mattered had they not eventually reconciled to the idea. I would have had this man despite any views they might hold contrary to mine on his worth. As I was and still am _madly_ in love with him.”

John blushed, and Sherlock laughed, laying a cool hand on John’s, saying with what felt like a great deal of sincerity, “I couldn’t live without him.”

Well, that was new. John took a sip of his drink, not wanting to make eye contact with Sherlock. _Dear god what was that?_

After lunch, when they were alone again in the garden he was inclined to ask him, “Are you going to explain that little display?”

“We have to sell the relationship John.” Sherlock said, “People like love stories. Rags to riches. You’re both.”

“I don’t actually love you Sherlock,” John said.

“Well that’s quite harsh, given my recent confession,” Sherlock smirked, “Play the game why won’t you?”

“It’s lying!”

“It’s _politics_!” Sherlock snapped back, “Either way. We’re going up North to visit some of the villages. Your sense of honesty and good nature will be far more at home there.”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly.

“Was that a quip? Again? I was doing so well,” Sherlock sighed, “Right. Let’s see. Me. What more is there to know about me? I have no desire to have children.”

“I feel like that’s something you should have told me before marriage,” John pointed out.

“Children don’t grow up well in this environment. It’s pretty cutthroat.” Sherlock said.

“That’s why you don’t want to have any? Because you don’t think they’d be happy.” John almost smiled, “I thought it was because you would think they’re a nuisance.”

“Do you find me a heartless man, John?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

***

The staircase led from the base of the mountain halfway to the summit. A thousand steps to the top. John had been paying attention to the tour guide that led them on the tour of the town, but had zoned about a bit when they approached this architectural marvel, gaping at it in wonder. He had only ever heard of it. Peasants didn’t really have the resources to travel.

Sherlock, who had been there before, seemed almost disinterested, when suddenly a look of shock went over his face, “No. No. Absolutely not.”

This snapped John’s attention back to the tour guide, who explained cautiously, “It is a tradition for one member of a married couple to carry the other up the steps of the ancient temple.”

Sherlock was saying something along the lines of, “I really don’t care about your pagan tradition, I am not carrying him up a thousand steps,” when John cut in.

“I’ll do it,” John said suddenly, “I’ll carry him up.”

Sherlock turned around and raised his eyebrows, “You’ll do what exactly?”

“Come on,” John leaned in and whispered, “We have to sell the relationship remember? And aren’t you madly in love with me?”

Sherlock blushed, he had said that.

And now it was John’s turn to surprise him. Literally sweeping the prince off of his bejeweled feet he hoisted him in his arms, on hand resting under his back and the other secured under his knees. Sherlock was so shocked by this sudden loss of equilibrium that he had jerked up to put his arms around John’s neck.

“What. Are. You. Doing.” Sherlock hissed in his ear.

“Politics,” John said simply, and took the first step.

“I demand that you put me down.”

“Nope,” John climbed a few more.

“John. I am a prince.”

“That’s nice.” John smirked, “How princely do you feel right now?”

“Not very.” Sherlock glared.

“You can slacken your grip a bit if you want, I won’t drop you.” John said.

Sherlock loosened his death grip on John’s neck, “This is utterly embarrassing.”

“Now you know how I felt this morning. Besides. Would you rather you have to carry me?” John asked, straining slightly as he took a few more steps, “How many are there?”

“A thousand.” Sherlock suddenly smiled.

“You’re heavy,” John groaned.

“You’re not even to the first hundred,” Sherlock pointed out.

“You wouldn’t have been able to do five.”

“You couldn’t lace up your own shirt.”

They bickered a bit after that then lapsed into comfortable silence. Well comfortable in the sense that they were fine with not talking. John was physically quite uncomfortable by step 213. But for some reason some part of him wanted to keep going, wanted to take Sherlock all the way to the top.

Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off of John, as he was, in a rather undignified manner, pressed against the other man’s shirt. He could see him sweating. The oddest feeling of security passed through him as John adjusted his grip below Sherlock’s knees. He felt the strength of his arms. The arms of a blacksmith. _Well this is unsettling_.

“Are you sure you can continue?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t doubt the power of the common man.”

So they went on. Up and up. One step at a time. At one point John paused and without thinking Sherlock retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off of John’s forehead.

“Thanks,” John said brusquely, suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that he was actually holding Sherlock in his arms, though not in the way a typical married couple is probably used to.

“Not a problem. I am heavy. Maybe I should lay off the kitchen sweets.”

“You’re rail thin,” John laughed, “Just tall.”

“Not as tall as the portraits make it seem. I make use of a long cloak and a short husband.”

John snickered, “That’s amusing. That is.”

They continued. Step after step after step after step. Until finally at 979 John didn’t think he could take it anymore.

“I can see the temple,” Sherlock said, “Just a little farther now.”

“I don’t think I can Sherlock. I’m spent,” John panted.

“What about the power of the common man?” Sherlock asked, he could feel the moisture of John’s sweat.

“What about it damn it?” John retorted.

“I-I believe in it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, now finish.” Sherlock demanded.

“Alright. Okay.”

John took one more step. Then another. Then soon he was five steps from the top.

“Sherlock—“

“John,” Sherlock said simply, shifting himself in John’s grip.

For some reason that was all John needed to hear.

At the top he wandered to the side of the temple first before putting Sherlock down.

“What are you doing? Put me down—oh” Sherlock realized, “That’s a marvelous view.”

“Yeah it is.” John admitted, looking at Sherlock and seeing something different, something gentler in his eyes.

“Gentleman.” An attendant coughed in the corner.

The moment was broken. John quickly set Sherlock down and they looked away from each other awkwardly. Sherlock straightened his outfit and dabbed at himself with the handkerchief while John followed the attendant into the temple.

“The old traditions say.” The attendant began, “That the man who takes his soulmate up to the temple is destined to be with them forever. That their union is most blessed.”

John expected Sherlock to be whispering something like, “Ridiculously pagan peasant nonsense" to him now.

But instead the prince leaned in to whisper, almost bitterly, “If only he knew the truth.”

John didn’t know what to think. 


	8. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Irene. John misinterprets entirely.

John hadn’t wanted to see it. Not after the wonderful holiday they had been having. And he had to admit, it was wonderful. Sherlock knew a lot more about geography and politics and things than John, and learning it from him as they walked through towns and tours was a lot more fun than in some stuffy old room at the palace. They felt more comfortable with each other now too. It was the staircase, John knew, it was the feeling of having taken Sherlock up all that way.

So when he walked through one of the many manors they were staying in on their little tour through the provinces, and saw his own husband deep in conversation with a beautiful courtesan he had never seen before he really didn’t want to think the worst. After all, they could simply be talking. But then she had leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, leaving the red mark of her lipstick, a claim on him that John could never make. They leaned closer together. And John didn’t want to stick around to see Sherlock kiss her back. But since when did he _want_ to make such a claim on Sherlock?

It wasn’t a real marriage anyway. They were free to have affairs. John didn’t care. John shouldn’t care. _But he did_. He thought of Sherlock’s hands. So fair, so cool, touching her. Touching her everywhere, in places they shouldn’t. The thought infuriated him. But it shouldn’t. _He’s not really yours John._

Whatever. Sherlock was free to do whatever he wanted. Whenever he wanted. He was after all, a prince.

It was in the midst of this emotional turmoil that he saw Mary. He had known she was coming. After all, she did live in the neighboring village. He had told her when he had left to go marry Sherlock that she was welcome to come visit him if he was ever in town. And now he was.

In her he saw the life he should be living. Normal. Happy. With his smithy. And his very non-Sherlock wife.

He had known that she would try and kiss him. She had never been over him, even when he had ended it to go marry Sherlock. She still had feelings. John had planned to say no. After all, they had agreed. No affairs this early into their fake relationship. But Sherlock had broken the rule. So why not? John realized later, he wasn’t thinking straight.

It didn’t make him feel better. Kissing Mary in secret by the trees. If anything when he left her he felt only guilt. Which was unreasonable because though he was married he wasn’t really in a relationship with Sherlock at all. _Never again_. He knew he couldn’t do that again. It was wrong. Wrong. So wrong. Maybe it was the principle? But he knew that it wasn’t. It wasn’t the principle of it being wrong. It was the fact that every second he kissed Mary every fiber of his being wished, wished so desperately that it was Sherlock under his hands. Were Sherlock’s lips refreshingly cool too? It was maddening.

“Where to tomorrow?” John asked him once they were in bed.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Sherlock?”

No response.

“Sherlock?”

“Has it occurred to you John, that on our honeymoon vacation you should not be kissing random street women?” Sherlock snapped.

“Has it occurred to _you_?” John said, “I saw you with Irene,”

“Do you have feelings for Mary?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s question.

“None of your business, as you remind me incessantly, we’re not in a real relationship!”

“You kissed her, that-that stupid peasant whore, and you won’t even do me the decency of informing me,” Sherlock said.

“You kissed Irene, and did god knows what else with her. And that was a quip if I ever heard one.” John shot right back.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, “You want something on me.”

“Yes. And for that it better be good.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, and he laughed hollowly, “If you really saw what happened John you would know that I didn’t sleep with Irene. She wanted to. I told her no. Because I’m a married man. And you know what else? I didn’t even kiss her. And you know what? You want something about me? I’ll tell you. I didn’t kiss her. I never have. Because I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“Sherlock, I’m s—“

“I hope that was good. I hope kissing Mary was good,” he turned his back to him, “Good night, John.”


	9. Heavy is the Head that Holds The Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News arrives from the capital.

The messenger came in the morning. Sherlock hadn’t said a word to John since their spat the night before, so they were walking in the garden together in silence. They saw the official royal insignia on the rider from a distance, but even Sherlock seemed confused as to why a dictate was coming to him now. Mycroft rarely consulted him on matters regarding the kingdom even when he was at home.

The rider got off the horse and walked the rest of the distance to the pair, he removed his hat and he kneeled, “Your grace, the king is dead, long live the king!”

John was the first to respond, “What? When did this happen?”

“Just this morning, sire, the king was in his rooms and he was killed by a member of his own guard, the court advisors want you to come to the capital immediately and take over, there is of course considerable turmoil—“

At this Sherlock laughed, “No, no. Mycroft’s not dead. He can’t be dead.”

“Your grace I assure you that—“

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped, “Just shut up. He’s _not_ dead.”

“Sherlock,” John put a hand on his arm, “Just calm down a minute.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Sherlock hissed, “My brother can’t be dead John. You didn’t know him. He was a fortress. Unbeatable. Unreachable. Brilliant. This isn’t right. This is wrong. I will go back to the capital. They are lying, John. Lying to me. And no one. No one lies to me.”

“Sire—“ the rider cut in.

“I’ll take it from here,” John said, finding himself much more in control of the situation than he expected, “You can tell the court that the king will be with them shortly. You will tell them he took the news well. And that he is ready to succeed.”

Sherlock was pacing, murmuring to himself frantically, shaking his head as his curls bobbed in the wind.

“Yes, sir,” the rider nodded to John, bowed deeply to Sherlock and left them.

***

“You sure you’re okay?” John asked a few minutes later, when they finally went back inside.

“No,” Sherlock answered bluntly.

“Is there anything I can—“ John started to say.

“Don’t think this excuses your behavior, if I am to be king the behavior of the consort will be scrutinized more than ever,” Sherlock rationalized.

“Sherlock, I have to make sure you’re okay before I let you just barge off to the—“

“What concern is it of yours?” Sherlock snapped, and John saw a rage in his eyes that was truly, truly frightening, “It’s _my_ brother that’s died. It’s _my_ kingdom that’s coming apart. _My_ treason plot to unravel. Who are you? Some nobody from the Ogre Wars thrust upon me for nothing but public relations.”

“I see, well I’ll—I won’t trouble you in the future,” John said, a bit shocked by that declaration.

“We’re leaving as soon as I notify the right people. News will have traveled by wildfire anyway. Meet me in the stables.” Sherlock said, not looking at John, tapping his hands together erratically.

***

The nobles had wanted to bring him in to the capital with a retinue. John even had wanted to suggest a carriage, or at least a guard or two. But he knew better than to talk to Sherlock know, inflamed as he so clearly was by anger.

So they were riding into the capital on Sherlock’s white horse Volta. John was sitting behind him on the saddle, and holding on for dear life as Sherlock rode like hell, at one point almost falling off.

“If it’s hard to stay on hold on to me,” Sherlock said at one point.

John sighed, but did so, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock’s narrow waist as they bounded down the country road.

“Three days journey by carriage, we’ll ride through the night, make it there by morning,” Sherlock announced.

John only gripped him tighter, this was going to be a long ride.

***

The next week was a blur in John’s mind. Every second spent by Sherlock’s side. But not _really_ by Sherlock’s side. They met the advisors together. Were advised on the situation. Sherlock dismissed the guards and brought in a few from his mother’s family, whose loyalty he felt he could count on. They discussed the coronation. Sherlock made addresses to the courts. Various noble families. Then one in the capital’s town square. One to the public on the front lawn of the palace. For all of it John was there. A polite step behind, as he would expect to be for the rest of his life.

They weren’t talking. Not like they had been anyway. The Mary thing, John suspected, and the added stress, and shock, of the king’s death had thrown Sherlock into a frenzy. He didn’t know who to trust, and even John it seemed was worthy of some suspicion. During the day he saw Sherlock go to the morgue, see the body himself, looking for some sign of a trick, some sign of a struggle. Just as in the first days of their marriage when Sherlock would leave John in the palace while he investigated, Sherlock was again gone without warning, at all times of the day. Except this time they weren’t even together at night.

The first day back they had asked that Sherlock move himself to Mycroft’s empty chamber, the bedroom of the king. Sherlock had not asked that John come with him, so to save himself the awkwardness he had slept in Sherlock’s room alone.

He couldn’t sleep. His mother had told him some things before he had left to go marry Sherlock. _Marriage changes you John. You get used to having someone all the time. It’s a wonderful thing_. And yes, he had to admit. He was used to it. He was used to having Sherlock’s sleeping form right next to him, an arm’s length away. He hated to admit it, but in this new environment with the new rules and expectations for him, Sherlock was the only thing that felt real.

John supposed he understood. Sherlock’s brother was dead. Sherlock felt betrayed. Confused. Angry. Attacked on all sides. Supposedly no closer to identifying the traitor. But he wished he could be there. Not just standing at his side, the perfect consort, shaking hands and smiling on cue. But _actually_ with him in this time of crisis.

“John, we have to talk,” Sherlock took him aside that night, locking eyes with him genuinely for what felt like the first time in a while.

“Okay,” John nodded, and he watched as Sherlock took them up to that new, giant bedroom, and locked the door.

“They think I did it,” Sherlock said.

“Did what? They think _you_ had Mycroft killed?” John asked, “Well, that’s—that’s…”

“Yes. What’s wrong John? Do you believe them? Think they’re right about me? You do think I’m heartless don’t you?”

“Actually,” John coughed, “I was going to say that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sherlock sighed in relief, letting his guard down for a second, “I’m the king. I can’t start my reign with this shadow over me I have to find the truth. But you believe me—that’s a start. That’s a start.”

“I should, I should go—“ John was startled by the look Sherlock gave him.

“For security reasons I think it would be better if you stayed here.”

“I can get the rest of my things in the morning,” John said.

This bed was larger than the one they had been sharing. But John could still see him, the rise and fall of his chest. It was good he thought, better like this. But he didn’t know why. Neither of them had really apologized. Were they just going to move on?

“I wanted it, I wanted it so badly,” Sherlock confessed, staring up at the ceiling, “But not like this.”

John didn’t think an _I’m sorry for your loss_ would cut it. What would a normal husband do? What was he supposed to do?

“I wanted to go to war, I wanted to be a hero. But when my brother—when he was attacked and taken by the enemy I didn’t want to be the one that survived.”

“I should apologize. My family started that war. And I’m sorry for what I said—I don’t know if you even remember—“ Sherlock said quietly.

“It’s fine, its all fine, Sherlock,” John said, barely suppressing the urge to bridge the gap between them on the bed and embrace that impossible man.

“I’m worried. The people may not support me.”

“I’ll get you popular support.”

“I couldn’t ask you to—“

“Sherlock I want to, I wanted to take you up those stairs,”

“Okay,” he nodded, “Okay.”


	10. The Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is crowned king while John is made king consort.

It was a clear day, not a cloud in sight, but a pleasant breeze was felt from the South. Describing this breeze the court astrologer said it was a good omen that a new power would rise today. John thought he was paid too much (frankly, in John’s opinion any compensation for such a ridiculous service was too much). After all, what was the use of an astrologer if he could only use the alignment of Jupiter’s moons, random winds, and the position of Saturn at a time of someone’s birth to predict events he was already sure would occur? When he remarked so to Sherlock the other man had laughed, but didn’t appear to truly be listening, wrapped up in his own mind and obviously tense.

“Relax, it’ll be fine,” John said, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could make an utter fool of myself in front of my subjects and doom my reign from its onset? I could get killed by these dissidents who seem to be lurking in every corner, I could _trip_ ,” Sherlock ranted.

“There is no silver lining for you is there?” John asked, “It’s your coronation. You only get one.”

“Are you actually suggesting that I enjoy myself out there?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“It might save you energy rather than _pretending_ to enjoy yourself and scowling on the inside like a grump.” John pointed out.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, and was about to continue when the servants came in with the elaborate robes he was supposed to wear for the ceremony.

“Wow,” John said, “That’s…well…”

“Overly ostentatious and symbolic of generations of peasant oppression?” Sherlok offered.

“It’s magnificent,” John admitted, “This peasant is pleased.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Sherlock chided, a reluctant smile creeping on his lips, “You’re the king consort.”

“Do I get a crown now?” John asked as Sherlock was fitted.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Sherlock warned, “Really heavy. You’ll want to yank it off your head and chuck it after a minute or two.”

“No wonder you royals are always in a bad mood,” John smirked, “You’re literally weighed down.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped.

“You can’t tell me to shut up, I’m the king consort, my husband will have you beheaded, or drawn and quartered or guillotined,” John laughed.

“John,” Sherlock chuckled, “John I’m warning you right now.”

“It’s too late, Sherlock, I’m drunk with power.”

“Two steps behind me,” Sherlock said, “Remember. That’s all you have to do. Then I’ll sit on the large throne in the center. You’ll stand and watch me be crowned. Afterwards, you’ll sit down to my right and they’ll crown you. Then you’ll get up after everyone’s had time to clap and gawk. And you’ll lead me back inside.”

“Two steps,” John repeated.

“Two steps,” Sherlock said.

***

When Sherlock came out onto the balcony there was a choir singing with the voices of angels. White doves were released into the sky and when he came into view of the crowd the welcoming roar was deafening. The gardens were in full bloom, a band of violinists walked in between the crowd. An acrobat was doing tricks within the crowd below. The palace cooks were handing out pastries by the dozen to grabby children and mothers. When Sherlock walked into the center there was the blare of a trumpet and a man announced the arrival of the intended king, quieting the crowds to a dull buzz.

John came behind time, exactly two steps behind him. He noted that this was the last time he would see that slender golden circlet on Sherlck’s head as he glanced at the heavy crown resting on a pillow in the arms of the highest ranking noble, Archduke Moran. He marveled at the perfect form of Sherlock’s curls. Perfectly crisp, like a nest upon which the crown would perch. He felt a strange sort of privilege considering the fact that he had seen them wet and clinging to Sherlock’s scalp just this morning, seen Sherlock running around completely disheveled in his nightgown a few hours ago when now Sherlock completely looked the part of the most powerful man in the known world.

There were two people carrying his train, standing close to where John was standing. After a few words by the principal court advisor Sherlock sat down on the ornate chair they had brought out here from the throne room, and John prepared to watch him crowned.

He was glad that the people could only see him from a distance. Glad that no one could see the strained smile Sherlock held when the heavy thing was placed on his head. Glad that when he gulped and nervously cracked his wrists no one was close enough to glimpse it.

At his own signal to sit down John proceeded exactly as rehearsed and he heard Sherlock sigh in relief. When he saw the crown set down upon his own head he thought of how unlikely this all was. His own father had been an orphan and begged on the streets. He himself had almost died in a pointless war. And now, now he was a king.

He flashed a smile at Sherlock, who for the briefest second looked back at him before fixing his eyes forward, “How do I look?”

“Quite fetching,” Sherlock murmured, smiling genuinely for the first time, “Now, remember. Just wait a minute or two, then you can—“

“I will, yeah, but how do you want me to, just take your hand or—I got it, nevermind,” John improvised upon seeing the brief flash of terror on Sherlock’s face.

After the allotted two minutes he got up, and himself bowed low in front of Sherlock, taking his hand and bringing it to his lips, “Sherlock this is the part where you get up.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, “I just—wasn’t expecting you to…nice touch.”

John wanted to sigh and tell him everything wasn’t a ‘touch’ or a move in some game, but he felt now wasn’t the time to get into that, Sherlock being on edge as it is.

“Now ballroom, we’ll dance a few dances. It’ll be alright.” Sherlock said as they came inside, “Now someone get these ridiculous robes off of me, and this crown.”

“Don’t you have to continue wearing the crown?” John asked.

“This is the original, with the real gold inlay and all that, the one I will wear regularly is a lot less annoying, and comparatively that is.” Sherlock said.

“Shall we?” John said, “You first. I’ll be two steps behind.”

“We shall,” Sherlock said, in what John realized was his first real dictate as king.

***

A sizable group of peasants had been let into the ballroom as well to see the new king at the reception, and eat a lot of nice food. John commented that more of them were probably here for the food, hoping to get at least a smirk from Sherlock, but to no avail, the man was at his icy prime.

“Permission to make things interesting?” John asked suddenly.

“What?”

“This isn’t really a _formal_ _formal_ dance. This is for the peasants right? I can dance a peasant dance with you. It’s a lot less rigid. More twirling and spinning and moving. It’ll be fun. It’ll look good,” John paused then added, “Politically.”

“I don’t know any peasant dances!” Sherlock said indignantly.

“I do,” John said, and abruptly broke the step of their waltz and changed his hand positions on Sherlock.

“John what are—“ Sherlock began to say as he was rapidly twirled.

“I don’t even—“

They sashayed to the left.

“I really must insist—“

They spun into the center of the room.

“This is actually kind of—“

John dipped him.

The people watching seemed to be enjoying this more than the sober waltz of before, and when John brought Sherlock back up there were cries of _Kiss him!_ from the happy audience. In the millisecond after John processed the request he saw Sherlock tense, and freeze, and a part of John really did want to grab him right there and kiss him on the mouth. But Sherlock had never kissed anyone. He had said. And for the first time to be in front of all these people...He looked at Sherlock’s eyes for the briefest instant for some sort of direction but they only indicated a state of utter panic, waiting only for John’s response.

Seized by a sudden inspiration he cupped Sherlock’s face with his right hand and kissed him gently on the cheek. For once the other man’s skin was warm, probably from all the dancing. Slightly pink, probably from all the attention. Immediately turning to the crowd John shrugged if to say ‘Are you happy now?’

It got a decent amount of cheers, as John grabbed his rather startled husband to dance again.  Sherlock’s face was still flushed, and he was looking at John as if he had just done something incredibly inspiring.

“That-that thing you did, for the peasants, that was um—good,” Sherlock mumbled as they kept dancing.

John wanted to say _Idiot, it was for you_ , but knew it wasn’t the time to get Sherlock to turn turnip red for the entire populace, “Long live the king.”

  


	11. The Revolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John helps Sherlock as he adjusts to his responsibilities as king.

As they walked to their bedroom Sherlock touched the spot on his face where John had kissed him. Moving his hand over the skin almost as if he had been stung, reliving the quiet thrill of that moment, and the one before when John had pressed his lips to Sherlock’s hand. It was silly, Sherlock thought, to have liked it that much. Sillier still, he thought, to have let John see him blushing like a schoolgirl. His heart it seemed, was trying to rule his head, and that simply wouldn’t do, especially if he was to rule the nation.

“We have an audience with the nobles tomorrow,” Sherlock said, “My spies tell me a few still cling to the belief that I did away with Mycroft in order to secure the crown, but in light of their having no proof of the matter I am told they will stay quiet for the time being.”

“You did good today,” John said genially.

“I wasn’t alone,” Sherlock replied.

“Was that an actual _compliment_? Did you just say something nice to me, Sherlock?” John laughed.

“Cherish that, it won’t happen very often,” Sherlock said as they approached the door.

“It’s alright,” John huffed sarcastically, “I will live without endearments from my dearly beloved.”

 _Beloved_. Sherlock flushed again, “There’s more, John. My brother was the most brilliant, ruthless leader I’ve ever known, and either removing himself from the equation was a part of a larger plan, or we’re dealing with someone more brilliant, and certainly more dangerous. And Mycroft was a person who wouldn’t flinch while watching someone being killed in cold blood.”

“Watching?” John asked incredulously.

“The execution of traitors to the crown,” Sherlock explained, “A standard procedure.”

“Were you two particularly close?” John asked as they undressed with their backs to each other.

“Yes and no.” Sherlock said shortly.

“How can it be both?”

“Well,” Sherlock got into bed, “There’s the obvious. All the things he did keep hidden from me. Some of which due to my new level of access I’m discovering now. Others of which are bound to come out of the woodwork. But being the only two sons of the King we couldn’t be _that_ distant from each other, there was simply no one else who understood the perils and responsibilities of the position. Hence, we found something of kindred spirits in each other. Though I am honestly nothing like him. He can be cold, harsh, and dismissive.”

“And you’re _never_ like that?”

“I try not to be.” Sherlock said, “The results are not always up to par.”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock turned on his side.

“Don’t let the spiders bite,”

“Shut up.”

***

John had taken his new duties as king consort in stride. As Sherlock had expressed a preference for placing less trust on the servants in light of Mycroft’s murder, John had decided to solve the problem for him by simply taking on a few tasks himself. When the morning light came in from the windows, John got up right away, a habit he had retained from his military days. He found Sherlock’s slippers and brought them to his side of the bed.

He gently shook Sherlock awake, murmuring his name a few times. The first time this had happened Sherlock had jerked awake and demanded to know what John was doing and whether a war had been declared in the night. The times after that however he had gotten progressively harder to wake. Only snapping his eyes open at the mention of something exciting in the day’s agenda, also kept by John.

After he woke up John had the rest of the routine memorized. John would close his eyes as he put the dressing gown on the young king. Read through the agenda as Sherlock found his slippers. He would follow him to the washroom where Sherlock would splash some water on his face and then they would go over the day’s events together. Which ones demanded Sherlock’s presence, which ones John could show up to as a courtesy, which ones they really wanted to avoid—visits with nobles—and ones they were most anxious about—check-ins with the advisory council.

In the middle of the day Sherlock would hold open court, which was a great thrill for John, really speaking the highlight of the day. People would come with their cases and he would deduce them and solve their problems on the spot. Dealing judgments and issuing sentences from his seat on the throne. This lasted for a few hours and afterwards he would meet with representatives from the five provinces to resolve various regional disputes between them. In the evening he would be briefed by the war council, the commanding generals would send messengers from the state at the front lines—the ever feared Ogre Wars. When night finally came again it was bliss, and more often than not they were both so exhausted that they fell right to sleep.

It was incredibly domestic, what they had going on. John knew it. Sherlock knew it. But for some reason or the other they had been so busy learning how to run the kingdom they hadn’t had the chance to discuss it, them, what they were becoming. For all intents and purposes, minus the physical things, the sex, the romantic intimacy, John was beginning to feel very, very, married to this man.

Now it was three weeks from the day of the coronation. John had gotten up and he was in the process of nudging awake a man who had been awake by candlelight well past midnight. It was not an easy task.

“Sherlock, get up,” John said finally.

“No.” the man grunted sleepily.

“Get up, right now, or I will _make_ you,” John snapped.

“Ha,” Sherlock said petulantly and then mumbled, “Can’t make me do anything.”

So just to prove him wrong, John picked him up, sheet and all, just in the same way he had done on the staircase all that time ago.

“John!” Sherlock flailed in his arms, “This. Is. Not. Kingly.”

“You’re not behaving very kingly, then, are you?” John said, twirling him around, just because he could.

The seconds seemed to slow down. All there was in Sherlock’s head were the offending rays of the sun and John’s arms. All there was in John’s was the feeling of Sherlock in his arms, the way he looked with his curls all in disarray, wrapped in almost nothing but a bedsheet. And wasn’t that a thought.

“I suppose I’m not,” Sherlock said finally.

The light passed over John’s face, and to Sherlock’s sleep addled mind it was like gazing upon the sun as the rays glinted off of his blonde hair. He took a deep breath. His heart thudded in his chest. Time slowed almost to a standstill.

“If you want,” Sherlock said softly, “You can kiss me.”

For a second there John couldn’t believe what he had heard, but he had known what he wanted for a while now. But just as he was about to lean down and capture the taste of Sherlock’s mouth on his own, there were loud, persistent knocks on the door.

John deposited Sherlock hurriedly back on the bed and time once again began to race. Sherlock’s pulse skyrocketed as John answered the man door, and he felt an odd pang in chest. _That was close_. Why had he asked John to kiss him? _That was foolish._ Had John wanted to kiss him too?

But the importance of such questions was quickly superseded when John turned back to him, his face grave.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, king mode suddenly switched on.

“Fighting on the Southern front has resumed, and a revolt against the nobleman Sir Henry Baskerville, by a peasant leader called ‘The Hound’, rioting has claimed several dozen lives already. Envoys are asking for help from the capital.” John answered.  

Damn. Sherlock had known the past few weeks had been way too quiet to bode well. No group had come forward claiming responsibility for Mycroft’s assassination. He suspected they were biding their time. Building strength. Watching him from the shadows. Whoever this _Hound_ was he might know the truth, or he might simply be a distraction for some longer game. But he had to secure the region for his people.

“Cancel all other appointments for today, John,” Sherlock said, “Call an emergency meeting of the war council. And pack our things.”

“Why should I pack the things?” John looked confused.

“We are going to crush a peasant revolt, and I need my man of the people with me.”

“I’ll be two steps behind you,” John said, “For whatever you need.”


	12. The Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John prepares to confront the Hound.

“Um, about the other thing, earlier, I—“ Sherlock started to say.

“It’s fine, it’s all fine, don’t worry about that now, okay?” John said.

Sherlock nodded and then pushed the door open into the council room.

“As you were,” Sherlock said smoothly as they got up at his entrance, “I’ve read your reports. What’s the most current situation? Commander McHenry?”

“The _Hound_ is mobilizing fairly quickly, we’ll have hard numbers in an hour, I don’t think we’re going to hold this one without some significant military intervention,” an old gentleman at Sherlock’s right spoke up.

“Chances for a diplomatic situation?” John asked.

Sherlock noticed that the officers in the room looked to him first before responding to John, and he gave a small nod.

“I believe we can negotiate for time, but not much else,” a young officer to Sherlock’s left said.

“A full scale assault would not be advisable,” Sherlock said, pacing around, “As it is they’re agitated. This could inflame the situation even more. Options?”

“Send an armed garrison, we have to do _something_ , they’re defenseless, they’ve occupied the noble homes, centuries worth of relics are being ransacked…” a third official spoke up.

“Send a negotiator to talk to the _Hound_ see what he wants first, my intelligence tells me he’s not an unreasonable man, aggression’s not going to get us anywhere,” the young officer said.

“McHenry?” Sherlock asked.

“Your decision sir,” the old man said.

“I want to negotiate,” Sherlock said.

“We would not recommend you leave the capital at this time, your grace,” McHenry said, “Your person is too valuable. You would have to be sent in with a sizable guard. We’re still no further with the investigation surrounding your brother’s death. We have no idea whether these incidents are related.”

“Recommend we send the king consort,” the young officer said.

“With all due respect sir, we can’t send a mere peasant-born—“ Commander Harrison said from the back.

“You will keep in mind you to whom you are referring,” Sherlock said sharply, then turned to the old man, “McHenry? Would you recommend that the king consort be sent to negotiate with Hound?”

“I would not advise _against_ it,” the man said cautiously.

“Then it is done, prepare a briefing for him in one hour, and a single guard and a horse. He will depart this evening. No point in staying idle when the world’s falling apart.” Sherlock looked at them all intensely, “And let this be a warning to you, from now on, in my absence or not, you will regard any word or directive from him as a direct order from the _crown_ , is that clear?”

There were nods of ‘Yes, your grace,’ from around the table, and John followed Sherlock out as he swished his cloak dramatically and threw open the double doors.

“Can’t believe…the disrespect…” Sherlock mumbled to himself, still bristling with barely contained rage.

“That’s funny, you never mind it when you make remarks about peasants yourself, even about me,” John laughed.

Sherlock snapped around, looking at John fiercely, “You may not have noticed this just yet John, but I am a very protective man. I and I alone can say what I wish to that which is _mine_.”

 _Mine_. Okay, John thought. That was new.

***

_Evening_

“As per the advice of the council,” Sherlock said, “You go first on Volta, minimal accompaniment.”

“You’re loaning me your horse?” John asked.

“She is the fastest. Most well-bred. A functioning symbol of me to reinforce your authority when I’m not around. And besides. What’s mine is yours,” Sherlock said sheepishly.

 “Well, I suppose I’ll get going,” John said, not sure as to how he should say goodbye, standing there awkwardly as they looked at each other.

“Safe journey John,” Sherlock said.

The wind from the open stable doors blew some of Sherlock’s hair in front of his face and John reached his hand up and pushed it back. Sherlock felt an odd tightness in his stomach. He held his breath as John’s hand ran from his forehead to his chin, caressing his cheek, then coming to rest on his neck.

“How?” John asked barely above a whisper, “How are you always so cool?”

“Have some propriety John,” Sherlock joked as John nudged down the fabric of his shirt and ran his hand across Sherlock’s collarbones.

“We’re already married,” John pointed out, “And I want to remember exactly what you look like, until I see you again. It just wouldn’t do for me to forget the most tremendous pain in the arse of my life.”

“Go John,” Sherlock stepped back suddenly, “They-they’re expecting me back. I think they might have news on the assassination.”

“Write to me when I’m on the road, I’ll reply when I can,” John said, mounting the horse, “Alright?”

“Don’t you want something to remember me by? Token or something? That’s what people do isn’t it?” Sherlock laughed, blushing slightly at the remembrance of John’s hands on him, the thought of John’s hands on him in other places.

“I’m not going to be gone that long. And-this is you, isn’t it?” John flashed the wedding ring at him.

“That’s us.”

 ***

_New reports indicate a dissident known only as M. Developments too fast. Will communicate later. -SH_

_That was a really short letter, but I can’t blame you. M? Never heard of it. Our people have arranged a meeting with the Hound. Are you keeping up on your eating and things? Who’s waking you up? –JW_

_My list of people to trust is fairly low. I have the cook knock a few times with the pan. The clanging usually gets me up. If that doesn’t work the old scullery maid who used to make sure I didn’t eat plants as a child. Digestion slows me down. No one’s heard much about M. He stands above the fray. I must say I’m impressed. Let me know how the meeting goes. –SH_

_I see you miss me. Impressed? He almost killed you. I’ll send a full report. –JW_

_I was fairly accustomed to your presence, yes. Yes, almost killing me is quite impressive. That was the point. –SH_

_You’re a royal pain. –JW_

_I’m debating the point of these letters if we only receive them hours or days apart. I’ve also been told not to send any critical information via messenger this way if I can help it. –SH_

_The point is you miss me. The messenger boy is getting slightly annoyed yes. Especially because the notes are so short. –JW_

_Let him be. I am lost without my consort. –SH_

_That was almost romantic. –JW_

_As a prince I am skilled in many things, writing messages in a poetic form being one of them. Maintaining decorum in public another, my grasp of foreign policy. You will soon pick up on these things too. If you follow my example in these matters. –SH_

_‘Decorum in public’? You blushed in my arms the night of the coronation. –JW_

_It was a hot day. And keep in mind what you say here, this correspondence could be intercepted. –SH_

_Wouldn’t want the people to know what a romantic you really are, would you? Always the public image. It’s alright if you’re scared of interception. The messenger boy is really going to kill me for the amount of back and forth he’s done this week. –JW_

_The Holmes’ aren’t afraid of anything. We are conquerors. We give commands. And people follow. I don't give a damn who reads this. When you get back here I order you to kiss me. –SH_

_Well if it would be criminal not to... –JW_

_We’re here. I’m meeting the Hound tonight. –JW_


	13. The Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the Hound.

“You kept my watch,” the hooded figure said from across the empty pub they had agreed to meet on the outskirts of the city.

“No,” the color drained from John’s face, “You died. I saw you. But I’d know that voice anywhere.”

The figure strode up to him and pulled off the hood, stepping in to the light revealing a clear-eyed woman with fine blonde hair, “I didn’t die. Only injured. But I deserted the army afterwards, and decided to spend my life dismantling this status quo instead of defending it. I’m much happier. As for you, I see you’ve sold out. _King consort_. A fancy title. The palace is nice isn’t it? Know how many of our people died building that?”

“I kept your secret, in the army, that you’re a woman not a man, I said you were my _brother_. To everyone. And I did not sell out. I am here to get you to put an end to these riots. _Now_. We have enough problems with border control without having to secure people within our own borders.” John snapped.

“No ‘I’m so relieved you’re alive’? I expected better John. And whose side are you on anyway? You’re one of us John, inside, still. The trappings of the monarchy haven’t bought you completely yet.” she said.

“I shouldn’t have come,” John got up.

“Get the king to break up the noble estates. Distribute the properties among the peasantry. Get them to sell their priceless heirlooms so we can _eat_.” Harry spat.

“Do you know anything about _M_?” John asked suddenly.

“No,” Harry said.

“It’s not that simple you know, changing the way things are. Sherlock will. He’ll do it the right way.” John insisted, “Your way will lead to violence. Chaos. It already has.”

“I’ve seen this before, you _like_ him. You’re not in your right mind. He might care for you now but what are you? You’re a soldier, you’re a blacksmith. You’re not a king. Your people need you to fight with them when we take back what’s rightfully ours.” Harry implored.

“He’s-he’s not like that,” John said, “He’s a political genius. He’ll make the changes that I recommend. And now that I have his ear I can make a difference.”

“Your power is an illusion, why do you think they sent _you_ here? They don’t intend to negotiate with me. They never did. You’re going to go back, report a failure of diplomacy, the King will send in his military hordes. Crush me with his cold, iron fist.” Harry said matter-of-factly.

John thought of Sherlock’s warm blush the night of the coronation. The way he had clung to him on that staircase. How he had asked, so cautiously, for John to kiss him and how brashly he had ordered it over that message. He had been so close to the man he had forgotten how absolute his power really was. Did he really want Sherlock to have all these lives on his conscience?

“If you hold off the fighting, I can stop him from sending in the troops to stop it. You can have an audience with him. Discuss your demands,” John said, trying to sound calm.

“I can hold them back for a week, two at most, but by the time you get back you’ll have to get me a better offer on the table.” Harry said finally, after thinking it over a few minutes.

“Fine,” John said, “And Harry. For what it’s worth. Despite what you’re doing. Which I detest to the greatest possible degree. The brother in me is relieved that you’re not dead.”

***

“You didn’t send me a report,” Sherlock said shortly, meeting John at the front gates.

“I had to tell you in person, I-“ John started to say.

“I _got_ a report. I have intelligence here. Don’t think you can maneuver around me like this. I know _Hound_ is Harry Watson. How long have you been in league, hmm? Since before the wedding?” Sherlock snapped.

“I didn’t know he was still alive,” John said.

“He? It’s a she. I know that too. How many lies, John. How many lies have you told me? ‘I’ll be two steps behind you for whatever you need’. Did you mean two steps ahead of me?”  Sherlock asked, and John could see in his eyes that it was tearing him apart.

“Sherlock,” John reached out to touch him, to calm him down.

“Don’t touch me again, I don’t know what kind of deal you promised her to get the quiet I’ve heard up there. Did you tell her you had me on a leash? I should have known better. After all, you’re only a peasant. You have no idea how important loyalty and alliances are.” Sherlock ranted.

“She had a legitimate point, we’ve been screwed over by the rich folks for generations. But I argued for you, I told her you were different,” John raised his voice a bit.

“Do you know about M too?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I don’t know about M, I didn’t know about _Hound_. Sherlock, suffice it to say I don’t know much about anything. In fact it turns out I don’t know very much about you either.” John said finally, “If this is going to work. You have to trust me.”

Sherlock paused for a few seconds. Looked at John intensely. His eyebrows went up and a flash of understanding passed through his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“If I tell you something about myself in return for what I said, will you forgive me?” Sherlock asked, “Looking at you now. You’re not showing any of the obvious physical indications of lying. I-I overreacted. I was afraid that you’d been manipulating me this entire time.”

“You’ll never be just an agenda to me, Sherlock,” John said, “I thought you knew that.”

“John, I-“

“I’m not _that_ upset at you. I _should_ have given you some sort of report earlier. I was probably just afraid you’d react like this if you didn’t have the chance to see me. But you have to think before you say things like that. You just have to.” John said.

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said after a moment’s silence.

“Did you—did you just apologize?” John sputtered.

“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock said quietly, “You’ll feel better about me in the morning.”

“You did miss me.” John smiled weakly.

Sherlock sighed, “Obviously.”

***

"John, this letter wasn’t here when I was in here last.” Sherlock glanced at a note on the bedside table.

“What does it say?” John said, watching Sherlock clench and unclench his knuckles.

“What does it say Sherlock?” John watched as Sherlock sat down, crumpling the piece of paper in his hand.

At the lack of response John got down on his knees and opened Sherlock’s tight fist himself, pulling out the paper and reading it.

_I know your secret, Mr. Holmes. –M_

“To what does this refer to, Sherlock?” John grasped his shoulders, “Sherlock, please, speak to me.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, scratching his head, “It could be—a number of things. All dangerous. This isn’t a bluff. Whatever he knows it could bring this administration to its knees. I already have enough problems. With _Hound_. We’re barely holding our current position at the border. Trade is slow. We look weak internationally. I don’t know what to do. I can’t fix it. I just can’t fix it. I have to go to war. I have to look into the economic sanctions again. I have to negotiate with that peasant quasi-terrorist. And now this. It could undermine everything else. Balance of probability it will. Plus the matter of how he ever snuck the note in here. There are people against me on the inside. I still don’t know how he managed to kill Mycroft. And if he killed Mycroft, why won’t he come after me? Unless this is what he wants. This is exactly where he wants me. But why? _Why?”_

“Shhh, Sherlock, just hold on a minute, we’ll take it one thing at a time.” John stood up and held Sherlock’s head to his chest.

“I know what it is. It has to be. I was stupid not to see it before. I just didn’t want it to be true. But I’ve always had a feeling it might be.” Sherlock said quickly, “We have to act _now_ —“

“Sherlock, it’s nighttime. No one’s awake, if you make a scene everyone will want to know why. Word will get around. You’ll throw everyone into a panic.” John said, “I know this has thrown you for a loop. But tomorrow _I’ll_ go and investigate for you. I want you to stay here. Draft a proposal to pacify my sister for the time being. Then we’ll handle the crisis on the border.” John said.

“What the hell can I do now then? I have to do something.” Sherlock said almost manically.

“Go to sleep,” John said, as he rested his hands on the top button of Sherlock’s shirt, looking into his eyes and waiting for an almost imperceptible nod.

“I need to get to the bottom of this,” Sherlock said, “Once and for all.”

“You will,” John said as he unbuttoned the shirt all the way, marveling at the way the light played off of Sherlock’s naked chest, “You’re brilliant. You’ll figure out a way.”

Even in the dim candlelight John could see Sherlock redden at that remark, which was good because it suggested a return to his normal self.

“Your confidence in me is unwarranted,” Sherlock said as John eased his shirt over his shoulders, “I was never groomed as the successor.”

“I was groomed to be a blacksmith, and look at us now,” John laughed.

“Yes, you were, weren’t you?” Sherlock said softly as he nodded once more, holding his breath as John’s hands undid the hooks on his trousers.

“It actually takes seven years of training, I did it in six,” John said, noting how much skinnier Sherlock’s bare legs were than he had expected. 

Sherlock watched as the fabric pooled at his knees and then his ankles, “Then you’re quite talented, I suppose?”

“I am.” John said, as Sherlock lifted his feet out.

John pulled the blanket over him and blew out the candle, putting the clothes in the dresser, and fetching tomorrow’s dressing gown at the same time.

“What did you think? When they told you that you were marrying me?” Sherlock asked.

“I told them there was no way in hell I would ever marry a prince,” John answered.

“It’s the stableboy, that’s the secret,” Sherlock said after a moment, “Meet with him tomorrow. Ask him if he’s spoken to anyone.”

John leaned over him and kissed his hair, “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”


	14. The Stableboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Hansen is a simple man.

When John walked down to the stables he wasn't sure what kind of man he could expect. Sherlock had only said that this man could be his father. He was not sure. But it was not out of the question. John found him by a rearing horse in the back, a wild one that was losing control, but at the gentle whispers and touch of the man it calmed down, enough so that John could approach them both. The boy who had told him which one Will Hansen was had also said 'I'll just let you know then. He's slow on the uptake at times'. And given Sherlock' s obvious quickness and brilliance, John had to confess that he was surprised. In looks the resemblance was strong. Sherlock's strong cheekbones were here too, his nose. But there was a softness in this man's eyes, a clearness and an openness that Sherlock rarely had.

"Sir, your grace, is there a problem with the horses?" The man had asked upon seeing in John.

"Actually I wanted to talk to you, in private," John said.

"About the horses?" The man scratched his head.

"No, not about that. Here, let's come this way, we'll close this door here. And we'll talk." John said.

"Okay, I will talk," the man said genially, "But afterwards I have to go back to my work."

"This won't take too long," John assured, "Look I don't know how to ask this. And keep in mind you cannot repeat this conversation to anyone. But did you by any chance know the current king's mother?"

"I am a loyal servant, your grace," Will said, "I have been my entire life."

"Did you know her?" John asked again.

"The Queen liked the horses. She was young when she married the king. Very young. But very sad. She came to see the horses. I have been a servant  here my entire life. Keeping the horses. I was nineteen years old. She had already given the king one baby, the heir. He did not look at her anymore." Will said as if it was all coming back to him.

"Did you befriend her?"

"I never called her by her given name, Emily. But I did tell her that a woman as beautiful as she had no business looking so sad. The first time she called my name it was after she had been riding a horse that had lost control. I had come after her and calmed it down." Will admitted.

"Please tell me as much as you can, the truth." John said.

"The truth about what?" Will asked.

"Your life. Your connection to the Queen, to Emily." John explained.

"I am a loyal man. I came places she told me to. I talked to her for a long time on many days. She was very beautiful and very nice. I do not know what the king did not see in her. When she asked for me to be with her, I was. I had never done that before. But she was lonely. And I wanted to see her smile. I still could not call her Emily. Though she asked me to."

"You were with her--physically." John said.

"It was wrong. But I was young," he said, "A few days later she came to see me. She asked me if I loved her, and I said no. She then asked me to tell the truth, and asked again. I said yes."

"She said we could no longer see each other," he went on, "She asked me to understand. But I did not understand. I think I do now. But I am not sure of these things."

"You have quite a gift with horses," John said, "Breeding. Taming. Training. You could work anywhere in in the world. Earn more than you do here."

"I need to be here," Will said as if it was obvious, "After she stopped seeing me, I saw that she was with child when I saw her from far away. She was still very beautiful."

"Was it your child?" John asked softly.

"When the baby was born and presented I went to see it. I saw it from very far away. But I knew. I could feel it. In his face was my face." Will explained, "But he was a very pretty child. Very healthy. I caught glimpses of him from a distance, working for the palace. But I could never hold his majesty. I went to see her even though I had said I would not. She told me what I knew. She told me to go. I did not get to see the prince up close."

"Did you tell anyone else this story?" John asked, "Before me?"

"I am loyal. I did not tell." Will shook his head,  "He is good with horses too. He comes here sometimes. I rarely see him, as I work mucking out stalls most of the time, or am out in the pasture. When he was a boy I saw him from far away. Playing by himself in the castle. Then he used to be sick. But he was alone. Always alone. It was sad to see his highness like that."

"Why do you call him his highness?"

"It is not my place," Will said simply, "He is very proud that he is a prince I am sure. The truth could hurt him. I will not hurt him. I stay here for him. If he should ever need me. I love his highness very much. Though I never held him. I never came closer to him than several yards his whole life. It is not my place, I am not a man of great quality. Volta,  his horse, is a gift from me for his seventeenth birthday. He was not told it was from me. But it made him happy. So I was happy also."

"You seem like a man of quality to me. More quality than most. If you were my father, I would be proud. But you didn't repeat this to anyone?" John repeated.

"I will not hurt him. I am loyal."

"Right, thank you. For everything. I have to go," John said, he had to tell Sherlock what he knew immediately.

Hansen seemed to be in the middle of an intense internal debate, but finally asked tentatively, "If I will not have have the chance again. I will ask now. Your highness, can I see his h--my son?"


	15. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was wrong about the secret.

Sherlock too, had been busy all day. The meetings with the war council took up time, and while battle strategies and tactics intuitively made sense to Sherlock, he still wasn’t quite comfortable with the weight of his decisions. It was honestly a relief for him to come back to his room at night and see John waiting for him. It had grown to be quite a comfort, he realized, to have John at the end of the day, to sleep and wake up by his side. He quite treasured being the center about which John orbited, the center of all his attentions. But when he saw John’s face he remembered the task he had assigned to him the night before, the talk with the stable boy. He knew the chances of it being true were high, he had seen the man from a distance, he had been something of a mainstay at most royal events Sherlock had been at, and perhaps that wasn’t a coincidence. The resemblance was there. But without the man’s testimony there was no proof.

“What did he say?” Sherlock said as he undressed, and noted that since last night John had undressed him himself, he did not look away.

“He said it was true, he is your father, but he didn’t tell anyone,” John said, looking carefully at Sherlock’s expressions as the other man got into bed with him.

“I see,” Sherlock said, turning to face him on the bed.

“He’s quite something,” John said genuinely.

“I’m sure he is,” Sherlock said quietly.

“You’re awfully okay with this. I thought you would be a bit more—“ John started to say.

“Scandalized? No. Even as a child my father—I mean the King—he would be distant with me. I think on some level he knew I wasn’t his. And when I made my bid to alter the succession Mycroft suggested this and I was sufficiently shocked then. I’ve already had my time to be disappointed.” Sherlock said.

“You shouldn’t be disappointed,” John said, “If you’d have ever gone to meet him you would know that. He’s stayed here all this time for you.”

“I do not require a father figure John,” Sherlock snapped, “I have heard of him. William Hansen. They say he’s slow.”

“Are you really that superficial?” John asked, “Yeah he’s not the brightest. I’ll admit. But he’s a good man.”

“Are you saying I owe him something?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s your _father_. He’s a simple man, and all he’s ever wanted is to see his son.” John implored.

“That’s the problem isn’t it! He’s my father and he’s a simple man. Not a property or a title to his name.” Sherlock sighed.

“Does that stuff really matter that much to you?” John asked softly.

“No,” Sherlock admitted, “It’s just. My entire life. Being royal has been who I am. If I’m not completely royal by blood what am I? You’re a blacksmith. You’re a soldier. I’m just…I don’t know.”

“You’re brilliant, you’re a problem solver,” John offered, “And if all else fails…you’re my husband.”

“I can’t go see him,” Sherlock said, “You know I can’t.”

“I know. I was just hoping. For his sake.” John explained.

“That’s the way things are. He couldn’t have a son. And I didn’t really have a father,”

“You don’t see yourself as any different do you? Because you shouldn’t.”

“Do you?” Sherlock asked, “See me any different?”

“No, I know you for real,” John looked into his wonderful eyes, and bridged the gap in the bed for the first time.

He twisted one of Sherlock’s curls with his finger and released it, eying the portions of his bare chest not under the covers.

 “I am the king because _he_ wants me to be,” Sherlock said, “Nothing else. I have no blood right to rule.”

“Honestly though,” John said, “Does anyone?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, “But without the authority derived from tradition, what are we? It creates order. It’s funny if you look at it a certain way. On some level that this man, Hansen, worked in the stables for years when my father was king, well not my father, but that’s going to take some time to get used to. And the king never even suspected a man as low as that would be the man who had been with his wife. He suspected the nobles. He never even thought.”

“Will Hansen loved your mother more than the king did,” John said, “He was completely devoted to her.”

“That’s consolation I suppose,” Sherlock said, “What did he say that made you so sure?”

“Everything he did, he said, it was only to make her smile,” John answered, remembering how much he himself liked Sherlock’s rare smiles.

“She didn’t smile nearly enough,” Sherlock said.

“Neither do you,” John countered, noticing that as they had been speaking he had drawn closer to Sherlock.

“Not much to smile about,” Sherlock said, and now he was close enough to John to feel his warm breath on his cheek.

“How were you so sure, that the king knew that you weren’t his?” John asked.

Sherlock’s heart rate had jumped as John’s eyelashes were close enough to brush his cheek, “He told me I didn’t have it in me to be a king. That I was the biggest disappointment of his life. That I wasn’t worthy to be his son.”

Their noses bumped together awkwardly at first. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with his hands. John held one hand at Sherlock’s neck and the other at his jawline and he thought for just a second, before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, that it was strange that they were a married couple who had never kissed.

It was mildly shocking to John that Sherlock’s mouth was warm. His skin was soft. All that time before he had regarded him as winter’s chill, but now he felt like the heat of the summer. Sherlock for his part was in a state of mental overdrive at the recognition of the fact that he was kissing someone for the first time, kissing _John_ for the first time, right in the privacy of their own bedroom. The bedroom of the king.

It was heaven, absolute heaven, Sherlock thought, kissing his own husband in their bed. Lying so their bodies were so perfectly pressed together. Like puzzle pieces that fit. He adored every inch of this unprecedented contact. He could kiss him like this for a lifetime. Several sunlit lifetimes. No one before had taken care of him this way. Sherlock had not felt happiness like this.

‘I know your secret. –M’. The stableboy. Right? _Right,_ Sherlock’s heart said. _No_ , his mind countered. That’s not the secret at all. This is. My caring for _John_ is the secret he knows. And if he has the skill and the resources to kill Mycroft, who’s to say he won’t hurt John to get to me, now that he has me exactly where he wants me? He will. I have to show him that he’s wrong. And with this in mind, and infinite regret, Sherlock drew back from John.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Nothing, it’s a lot, that’s all, and I-I want to go to bed,” Sherlock explained quickly, fighting the urge to grab him and kiss him again.

“Okay,” John motioned for Sherlock to come sleep with him on his side of the bed.

Sherlock wanted to. He wondered how nice and warm it would feel to sleep all night curled around John, or perhaps with John curled around him. How nice it would be to feel every facet of his being so close. If nothing else, John’s arms had come give him a sense of security that he so desperately craved.

“There’s some documents, I still have to read, I’ll blow out the candle when I’m finished,” Sherlock said.

“Alright,” John said, “Alright.”  


	16. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries really hard to distance himself from John, but it's really, really not easy.

In the morning John did not wake him up their usual way. No, this time he nuzzled his neck and kissed his throat and whispered ‘Good morning’ into his hair. Forgetting for the moment his decision the night before, Sherlock obligingly put his arms around John’s neck, already so at home in the other man’s embrace. How had he ever managed to get up before, he wondered, when he wasn’t being kissed by John?

But then he remembered. Oh. _Oh no this can’t happen_.

He untangled himself from John, and if that in itself wasn’t a travesty, he saw a flicker of disappointment in John’s eyes, “I-I’m going to freshen up a bit. Long day. You understand.”

“Sherlock. Dressing gown. You’ve forgotten.” John noticed and then smirked.

“Right, well, that can sometimes happen when one’s thoughts are occupied,” Sherlock reddened and said as dignifiedly as possible under the circumstances, grabbing it from the bedside table and dashing off to the washroom, wondering why the hell his two instincts around John Watson were to act like an utter idiot or run into his open arms, or both.

 “I’ll be at breakfast with the agenda,” John said, “You’re adorable when you’re frazzled.”

Sherlock waited for the sound of the closing door, then faced the mirror with a steadfast expression, “This is the face of a man that is most certainly not in love with John Watson. Any displayed affection previously was entirely the result of political maneuvering, or so I shall leak to the press. This is the face of the man in complete control. If the walls had ears they would say it too.”

He scrawled three notes on his special paper with the royal insignia, one to his intelligence director. The other to his personal press secretary. A third to his war council.

_Find M. –SH_

_Change strategies. Create a rumor within the nobility that the marriage is a farce. Publish/Leak select portions of Mycroft’s correspondence on the true purpose of the wedding as a political move. And the list of potential candidates. –SH_

_Execute Gamma Protocol in relation to HOUND. Bring her in alive. –SH_

***

“So in the morning we’re both giving a public address on—“ John started to explain over breakfast.

“Correction, I’m giving a public address, you’re going to speak with the Billivic ambassador.” Sherlock said.

“Billivic, that’s a relatively unimportant country just off the Southern coast, couldn’t we send someone else? Shouldn’t I be seen with you?” John pointed out.

“Nonsense, I consider Billivic of tremendous importance,” Sherlock said, “As such. You will speak to the ambassador yourself.”

“Okay,” John said, “After that we’re going to speak to the war council.”

“I need you to organize the centennial ball during that time.” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock we’re at war, I think you can find someone else for party planning,” John said.

“It’s the _centennial_ ,” Sherlock said weakly.

“Well, alright, after that we’re discussing your proposal for the Hound situation—“

“I’ve already resolved that,” Sherlock cut in again.

“What do you mean you’ve already resolved it?” John asked, “I haven’t even read through all the proposals yet.”

“You don’t need to,” Sherlock pointed out, “I’m handling it.”

“Sherlock we’re supposed to make these decisions together,” John explained, “Right?”

“We are, but sometimes we make independent decisions. Divide and conquer. For example. Trade with Billivic will be your area.” Sherlock countered.

“Is this about the kissing?” John lowered his voice.

“It is not,” Sherlock whispered back.

“Then what is this about?” John asked.

“This is about the trade situation in Billivic, which is highly important to me at this—“ Sherlock raised his voice back to normal.

“Sherlock if you don’t want my input on important decisions you should just say so, if you don’t want to be seen in public with me you should say so, I don’t need to be handled like this,” John said.

“I do not need to explain myself to you, I am the king and you will listen to me!” Sherlock snapped, raising his voice.

John remembered the way Sherlock had clung to him on the stairs. The way he had asked to be kissed that morning a few weeks ago now. How awkward he had been last night when they had kissed for the first time. _Why is he acting like this?_

Many pairs of eyes turned to look at them in surprise. Sherlock glared at a few and they quickly turned to their regular activities.

“You are dismissed,” Sherlock said quietly, “Don’t make me say it again.”

“I’ll give your regards to the ambassador,” John said before bowing deeply and leaving the room.

***

It was evening when John first found the news out. The nobility still didn’t see him as enough of an equal to engage in their gossip. But he had had enough of the snickers and had asked to see the papers for himself. He wished he hadn’t. The leaked documents had gone around to every major noble family around the Capital. Mycroft’s directives to his people had been to find a ‘sympathetic character’ to contrast his brother. Preferably with some sort of military injury, a low income level, good looking enough, short. There were a list of other people who fit the bill. Sherlock’s comments on the list were also published.

 _Bore. Boring. No farmers. Too short. Boring. No northerners._ And then next to his name, for no reason at all except, the article noted, the word ‘smith’ had been circled, and the words _barely adequate._

So that’s what he was, a perfect fit to a predetermined category to sway public opinion. And in Sherlock’s own words: barely adequate. Great.

He had immediately stormed off to see Sherlock, which given the morning’s exchange wasn’t a good idea, but what the hell, he was reasonably furious, “Have you seen this?”

“Leaks are regrettable,” Sherlock said innocently, “But rumors are rarely permanent.”

“Did _you_ leak this?” John asked.

“Let’s go somewhere private before we have this conversation,” Sherlock took him aside and closed them both into a supply closet in the hall.

“Did _you_ leak this?” John repeated.

“Yes, but thing is—“ Sherlock began to explain.

“Barely adequate, huh?” John said, “Didn’t think I was so under qualified when you were begging me to kiss you. When you were hyperventilating because you thought some crackpot knew that you weren’t completely royal.”

“I am not desperate for your affection,” Sherlock snapped.

“Aren’t you?” John closed the space between them in the supply closet till their noses were almost touching.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, “I do not need you.”

“Oh, but you do,” John pushed him up against the back of the closet and kissed him gently, slowly, so that Sherlock moaned with reluctant pleasure, “I’m not going to lie. I want you too. But Sherlock, if you’re playing games with me, I can play right with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this with the last chapter. But I thought they were better separate.


	17. The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As long as Sherlock insists on pushing him away, John insists on coming closer.

The next week was the most fascinating game Sherlock had ever played. He was still steadfast in his resolve to protect John. And protecting John included yelling at him in public, distancing them at public events, and other political maneuvering of the sort that Sherlock had been skilled at all of his life. Yet he wasn’t prepared for John’s countermoves, in fact, he had never seen them before.

At a gala in the afternoon he would seat John next to some diplomats he didn’t really care about, hoping this M fellow had some spies that were watching. He would count that as a victory. But mere minutes later he found himself being snogged into oblivion behind a six tier cake, and being rather unceremoniously handed back to the more important dignitaries he had been talking to. He really did need to have a talk to John about public displays of affection. He really did need to have a talk with himself about the merits of kissing back. Life really was unfair.

At a council meeting in which he was trying very hard to ignore John’s suggestions, the man had leaned closer during one of the breaks and whispered things in his ear that made him red for the next hour.

“Sherlock if you don’t tell me why you’re doing this, I swear…” he had whispered.

“I’m not doing anything,” Sherlock had answered.

“Oh but we should be, you should dismiss the war council and I should take you on this table right now, would you like that Sherlock?” John had whispered traitorously.

The word ‘Yes’ had slipped from him before he had control over what he was saying, as John often had that influence on him.

And John had simply smiled, “Then imagine my hands on you, Sherlock, my hands are rough, you’ve felt that before, imagine where I might put my hands on you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock really hadn’t wanted to imagine it.

It wasn’t any different in the evenings when Sherlock made a point of yelling at John by their bedroom where some servants could report to spies that the king was not happy with his consort. That would show M. But no sooner were they in their bedroom that John asked him whether he wanted to come clean with what he was doing so that they could make good on his offer in the council room.

It was impossible, totally impossible, Sherlock decided, to distance himself from a man he was married to. He made the same mistake practically every other morning. John would kiss his neck, his bare stomach or his shoulders or even at times his lower back and Sherlock would clearly act like he liked it and they would manage to snog for a few seconds before Sherlock broke away and ran and John laughed because the sight of his husband the king, whom he was fighting the strangest battle with, running to the washroom in his underwear was just really, really funny despite everything else.

But Sherlock wasn’t breaking his resolve. There had been a series of disappearances among the palace staff. Ingrid Holdst. Orion Polythemus. Ulysses Madison. Archibald Daniels. Frederick Hopkins. Ann Taylors. Lisa Montgomery. And Lorri Tyler. There was no unifying factor among them, thought Sherlock had lost sleep trying to find one. And had been tempted more than once to ask John for his help. Finally he listed them out in order of the date they had gone missing. The first letter of the first names spelled out I.O.U. A. F.A.L.L. Coincidence? Naah, he thought. This was M.

He had some good news he supposed. He had put enough manpower into crushing Hound soundly, with minimal civilian casualties he was pleased to admit, and had brought in Harry Watson to the capital. That was one crisis resolved. But resisting John Watson, that was another crisis all together.

The first time he had made a remark to the nobles about the marriage being a farce John had groped his arse on the way out, and he had blushed, making his own remark worthless as they were clearly horny newlyweds with little regard for propriety. As Sherlock sent around a rumor that he had only married John because of the lower income perspective he brought John sent around a counter rumor that the king was insatiable in bed, which was decently annoying to Sherlock, firstly because he wasn’t actually having the fantastic sex with John Watson that a rumored Sherlock was having such a great quantity of, and secondly because it made his own rumor seem utterly ridiculous.

“Are you trying to ruin me?” Sherlock snapped at him when they were in bed together.

“Of course not, I’m trying to get you to tell me the truth,” John said, “Is it working?”

“NO!” Sherlock huffed, “It most certainly is not.”

“Keep shouting, according to a rumor I’ve heard, you’re very loud when we do it, and sound carries,” John smirked.

“I am not loud when we do it, we do not do it, we never have,” Sherlock asserted.

“Pretty torn up about that are we? I have a solution,” John maneuvered them so he was propped up directly above Sherlock on the bed, “I think you would enjoy it. Granted you would probably be as red as a tomato during the entire experience but they don’t call me Three Provinces Watson for nothing.”

“Stop making it so hard!” Sherlock shouted.

“I can’t help it if you’re hard for me, Sherlock, baby!” John shouted in return then lowered his voice, “Sound carries. That was a good line from you. You usually don't give me that much to work with when you're shouting.”

“Did you just call me baby?” Sherlock asked, “Why, why in god’s name would you do that?”

“Yes, I did,” John said, leaning down to kiss his neck, while Sherlock sighed in pleasure, “We’ve been married for a while and we have no endearments. I was considering love but you’re not being very lovable these days. Very secretive.”

“John,” Sherlock said instead of a valid counterargument, relishing every one of John’s kisses, as John lay perfectly on top of him.

“Yes, love?”

“You should not call me love, as we do not love each other.” Sherlock insisted, blinking a few times, approaching a breaking point with this game, nearly unable to lie for a second longer.

John must have seen the naked desperation in his eyes, so he moved himself to Sherlock’s side, and his voice was suddenly a lot gentler, “Okay, Sherlock, we’ll do it your way then. Always your way. And only because though you may not love me, I’d like you to know that I love you.”

In his real, startling inadequate life, Sherlock turned away.

But in his mind, Sherlock had only needed a nudge to fall off this cliff, and this was like being pushed by a herd of stampeding horses. Within the confines of his imagination, any and all resolve, and possibly the meaning of the word resolve was quickly superseded by the dangerously addictive idea of love, the proximity of John Watson and his own utter lack of self control.

In his fantasy he imagined he would say, “John, please take me in the way a husband is obligated to.”

“Sherlock, if you’re asking me to have sex with you I must insist you say it directly.” A hypothetical John would reply.

“Fine John, I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop talking and fuck me, happy now?” he would ask.

And John would smile that wonderful sunlit smile, “Delighted.”


	18. My Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes back to his roots.

Like many of the other palace servants, Will Hansen had a small property on the palace grounds. Despite having lived in the palace all these years, Sherlock had never been there before. After this errand, he didn’t think he’d ever come there afterward either.

The house itself was standard, with a thatched roof and a chicken coop in the side and a bucket collecting rainwater near the front steps. In the tiny garden in front someone had carefully planted rows of purple peonies, which made Sherlock smile, purple was the color of royalty. There was dirt everywhere; on his walk down here he had nearly sprained his ankle due to the unevenness of the road. Coming closer to the house the road had disappeared altogether, and he had followed a path where there were comparatively shorter weeds sprouting up from the ground in order to find the place.

It was strange to think that in another life this would have been home. It wasn’t much. But it was nice, tucked away in its own little corner of the world. Sherlock walked right up to the front door, which was weird for him, as his arrival was usually announced and he was surrounded by a retinue, or at the very least John and a few armed guards. This was the first time in his life he was knocking on someone else’s door and asking to come in.

When a girl opened the door he was surprised, but then quickly realized his mistake. Of course it had been foolish to think that Will Hansen didn’t have a family of his own, living his entire life alone pining after the one he had lost. He hadn’t even spared a thought to the fact that in addition to a father he might have other brothers and sisters running about. He looked at the girl, and must have been staring at her quite intensely, because she was looking right back at him like he was a weirdo. Obviously she was too young to recognize him as the king. And obviously, she was his _half-sister_. They had the same dark, curly hair.

“Whaddya want?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“I was hoping for an audience with your father actually, if that’s at all possible,” he glanced at the inside of the house behind her, “What’s your name?”

“Mama said not to talk to strangers,” she said.

At the invocation of her name, Mama materialized almost instantly, and recognizing Sherlock, shooed her daughter away from the door.

“Your highness,” a thin woman with soft brown hair bowed, broom in hand, pieces of straw stuck in her hair.

“You must be—“ Sherlock started to say but then shook his head, “I’m sorry I actually have no idea who you must be.”

“Ainslee Hansen, your grace, to what do we owe the honor?” she asked breathlessly.

“I know,” he said simply, hoping she would understand.

“Oh, yes, I-I thought you might come, well not you, personally, but someone, someone to make sure he didn’t talk,” she looked afraid.

“Did he tell you?” Sherlock asked, “And can I come in? It’s a bit hot out there.”

“Oh yes, don’t mind the mess, and watch your head,” she showed him inside, “No, he didn’t tell me. He doesn’t like to talk about these things. But I’ve pieced things together over the years.”

“He’s not in any danger,” Sherlock said, “Not from me, anyway, or the crown.”

She sighed in relief and sat down upon a stool near the hearth, “Thank goodness, I’m sorry, do you want to sit down? I’ve no idea how to behave around people of your stature.”

Ainslee yelled to the girl in the other room, “Emily fetch the other stool for our guest would ya!”

“Oh no,” Sherlock said looking around what must be the living room, “I’m fine.”

“He’ll be so glad that you’re here,” Ainslee smiled suddenly, “There’s a box he has under the bed, newspaper clippings, all of you and your goings-on.”

“He can read?” Sherlock asked, interestedly.

“No,” Ainslee admitted, “But the kids can a bit. And he asks people around town.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how many are there?” Sherlock said as the girl called Emily brought out the second stool for him to sit on.

“Three. Robbie’s the oldest at ten, Emily’s six, and the baby, Michael.” She beamed.

There was suddenly a knock at the door, and a voice from outside said, “Open up, wife!”

“That would be him,” Ainslee got up, “You’re looking a bit pale, dear—I mean your highness, I ‘pologize again, I should get you something to eat, or drink, or whatever you’d like really, if I have it. You like pea soup?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock, “And you can call me whatever you like. There really isn’t enough precedent for this kind of situation for there to be rules of propriety.”

“You’ve got a funny way of speaking,” she said as she went to the door.

Sherlock stood up as he heard Hansen come in. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel when he saw him. He didn’t know how Hansen would feel when he saw Sherlock.

“My wife, this has happened to me so many times in my dreams I’m going to need you get me a cold pail of water,” Hansen stared from Sherlock to Ainslee dumbfounded.

“No, I am really here, sir, Mr. Hansen,” Sherlock didn’t really know what to call him.

Sherlock had not seen another person this happy. It was as if all of his dreams had come true in that single second he had seen Sherlock.

“Your grace,” Hansen said, “Could I come a bit closer?”

“Call me Sherlock, please,” Sherlock closed the distance between them himself, and Ainslee quietly left the room, “I was told you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, yes I have wanted,” Hansen said, “For many years now. It was the consort who made it happen. He is a good egg. I like him. Keep him close.”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“You have her eyes,” Hansen laughed, “It’s a wonderful thing. It’s a wonderful day to be alive.”

Hansen pulled out a dusty box from under the cot in the back of the room, “This is the announcement they printed when you were born. Exactly four kilos. Numbers smudged a bit now but I remember, I had caught a fish that week that weighed exactly the same. Trout. I have a good memory. You could have got that from me. But then again, probably not. I’m all around not very bright. Those days this newspaper was a week’s pay, time does pass us by.”

“Why would you keep all of this?” Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor while Hansen sat on the cot and showed him the papers, it was just like a child might have sat while his father was teaching him lessons.

“I did not have anything else,” Hansen shrugged.

“I didn’t think, I didn’t think you’d have other children, when I came down here, I must admit it was rather a shock,” Sherlock said.

“Not to worry,” Hansen reached out cautiously to ruffle Sherlock’s hair and then drew back, “People say a first born always has a special place in a father’s heart. And people are wise.”

“You could do that,” Sherlock said, feeling a strange ache in his stomach remembering all those times he had wished, and hated himself for wishing that the old king would have been like this with him, “If you want. I don’t really mind.”

Hansen did, “Habit. I do that to my Robbie. He’s out fishing now. Should be back in time for dinner. Speaking of, you should stay for dinner.”

“I really couldn’t,” Sherlock tried to explain, “I don’t want to impose on you either.”

“I will not hear it, this is your home,” Hansen said it like it was the most undisputed fact in the world, “And you have made this a wonderful day. I have seen my son, I can die happy.”

He looked at the crestfallen expression in Sherlock’s face and laughed again, “Not now. Don’t worry. You seem like the type who worries a lot. The Queen was like that too. Always worried.”

“I have a lot to be worried about. It’s only logical to be anxious,” Sherlock said defensively.

“Come, sit up here, tell me what you’re worried about, I could help,” Hansen said innocently.

“I really don’t think you co—okay,” Sherlock joined him on the cot, feeling hopelessly childish, “The thing is. It’s a multifaceted problem, with tremendous repercussions both socially, politically, militarily and not to mention its economic impact on our budget deficit and the premiums we’re paying the mercenary force down in the Southern regions.”

“Come again?” Hansen asked.

“Right, that’s right. I can’t explain like that. Okay. I suppose that’s not the real problem, all kings have responsibilities like that. I-I just don’t know who to trust. There’s someone out there who’s powerful, okay? He’s like a spider, he’s not a man at all. He’s going to hurt people. And I don’t even know how. And it’s infuriating. Do you understand?” Sherlock couldn’t believe he was spilling all of this to a man he had just met.

“There must be someone you can trust,” Hansen said after pondering for an entire minute.

“There is, I just can’t be close to him right now, for his own good, that’s the only way it can be,” Sherlock said.

“That’s what the Queen said to me, when she was carrying you, but I do not think it made her happy to do it. I do not think this will solve your problem. From what I have seen, watching all of these years. You are a clever boy. Cleverer than a man like me could expect to have in a son. You cannot run from your problems. You must bring them out to face them.” Hansen said finally speaking slowly but carefully.

“And John? What should I do about him?” Sherlock asked.

“I have always tried to keep the ones I love close to me. It has not always worked. But I have tried,” Hansen explained.

Sherlock gulped, “I never told you I loved him.”

“You did not have to,” Hansen ruffled his hair again, “A father knows.”

They talked some more after that. Hours in fact, and Sherlock convinced himself it was alright to stay for dinner. They ate the fish Robbie had caught out on the small deck in the back of the tiny house. Sherlock watched Ainslee cut the fish into pieces for the children and just the same for him, and then feed the baby at her breast. Hansen thanked the lord and the king, which was slightly awkward for Sherlock, for the blessing of the food before they ate. Emily and Robbie stared at Sherlock with interest, and he memorized every detail of their faces because he knew he wouldn’t see them again, at least for a very long time.

After dinner Robbie took him back to the bee houses their father had begun to keep. Emily noticed his finely tailored shirt and asked him if he was rich. When he said yes she asked him for a nice doll because she had never had one before and he said he would see if that could be arranged.

It was nighttime when he left, and he still hadn’t executed the errand for which he had come. He had tried to tell Hansen so many times but couldn’t. And when they had arrived at the door to say goodbye he found that he couldn’t.

When Hansen embraced him as he left he did not remember the last time he had been hugged like this, by a father.

“You are a good man, Sherlock, before you are a good king,” Hansen said as he pat him on the back.

“It would mean the world to him, if before you left, you called him dad just once,” Ainslee had whispered to him at one point during dinner.

“I’ll remember that, um, I’ll remember that I suppose, dad,” Sherlock found himself being hugged again, and when they broke away he beckoned to Ainslee for a second, and asked her for a private word.

“Stay with the baby, Will, I’ll take him to the main road,” Ainslee said.

They walked together through the weeds, and Sherlock told her the truth, “You’re going to need to pack your things. There’s someone who knows. A dangerous person who will come after you and hurt you. I’m sending you away for your own protection. Far away from here, where he won’t find you. My men will come for you tomorrow night.”

“He won’t understand,” Ainslee said sadly.

“I know, I-I couldn’t tell him for exactly that reason, but I was hoping, if I told you—“

“I’ll take care of it,” Ainslee said, nodding to herself, “I will.”

“You have a beautiful family,” Sherlock said, staring back at the house wistfully.

“He really loves you,” Ainslee said gently.

“Keep them safe,” Sherlock insisted.

“Cross my heart.”


	19. A Dream of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to realize that the answer to his problems lies in Mycroft's master plan, and Mycroft's plan began with John.

John was sleeping so close by Sherlock wished he could just reach out and touch him. But he couldn't. So he watched him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and it might be strange but what the hell they were married. Which brought him back to why they were married. Mycroft's doing obviously. But had Mycroft known at the time that Sherlock was not a true born son? Why not marry a woman to produce more heirs? Why a man and that too a commoner? Did they really need peasant support that badly? Or was there another plan at work? If only he could ask Mycroft himself. But he was dead. Damn it all.

He hadn't gotten the chance to tell John he met his father. Having gotten home so late he had just slipped into bed beside him. He had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep alone. John was so warm across the sheets. Sherlock wondered what it might be like to wake up in his arms. But he couldn’t go about thinking like that. John was too important.

When he finally fell asleep he dreamed. Of his life with his real father. Peaceful days in the stables, he had always liked horses, all the crime solving he could want on the side. None of the burdens and duties of kingship. The heavy chokehold of the crown.Then the dream turned dark. Thick, burly clouds blocked out the sun and a shadow covered the land for miles around. Mysterious black riders with pennants inscribed with a red, bloody M marched in and burned the place to the ground. He screamed but no soldiers came to his aid, he was no prince anymore. He screamed for John, but he had never met John, and this was not what he wanted, not what he wanted at all. He heard them screaming and he felt himself held back by some invisible net, unable to go in after them and save them. The roof turned to blackened ash. The flowers were dust upon the ground. He screamed for John again right as he woke up.

“Are you trying to wake up the entire castle?” John asked, not harshly, stroking Sherlock's arm. 

“I saw him John, I went and met my father,” Sherlock answered, “Was I making too much noise?”

“You screamed my name,” John explained, looking away.

“Ah yes, well, um…” Sherlock felt the sweat running down his forehead, the way his bedclothes clung to his back.

“It’s alright,” John said, “You don’t have to explain. Just go back to sleep. I’m a soldier remember, if anyone enters I’ll wake up immediately. I’m used to being on edge. As long as I’m here I won’t let anything hurt you. No matter how you're behaving at the time. Even if you're a complete arse and I'm in a half mind to kill you I'd kill for you. You're safe with me."

Yes. As long as John was here it would be fine. He could sleep soundly by his side, and if the clouds came, Sherlock's heart overruled his mind, John would drive them away. Sherlock nodded and tried to fall back asleep. And it was then, as he sunk nervously back into the dreamworld that was nearly as horrifying as the one he faced while awake, that he began to understand why Mycroft had him marry this man. If M had come to destroy everything he had. John was meant to save him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't updated in a real long while. Sorry! Thought posting this real short chapter would get me back in the groove of it again. Look for something longer sometime this week.


	20. I am the Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go back to John's smithy.

“John we’re going out,” Sherlock announced in the morning.

“Can you at least tell me where.” John said, “Or why. Anything really. Anything at all.”

“Mycroft gave me a choice when I was to get married. A choice out of the commoners. But it wasn’t really a choice at all. He knew I would pick you. He wanted that from the beginning. It wasn’t an arranged marriage. It was an _arranged_  marriage.”

“I don’t follow,” John said.

“I’ve been driving myself insane searching for the answer to my brother’s murder, but it’s here, right here, the one decision of his that made no sense. You’re a man. Why marry me to a man? Why not a woman? You can’t give me heirs can you?” Sherlock paced about the room.

“No, I really can’t,” John sighed, “So you think—“

“I don’t think, I know,” Sherlock said, “Only conclusion from all the data. Everything else is a distraction. Hansen is my father but it makes no real difference it can’t be proven. It’s just messing with my mind. Hound is a distraction too. M is planting them everywhere, trying to confuse me. When the answer has been here all along. Mycroft’s plan. Is you.”

“How can it be me?” John said, “I’m just a blacksmith.”

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock confessed, “I need you to—we need to go undercover.”

“Undercover?” John was incredulous, “You’re facing a resurgence on the front with the Ogres, you’ve only just managed to quite the rebels. You’re going to have to field people who think you have no bloodright to the throne and you want to go on holiday?”

“Say I’ve taken ill for a few days, in the meantime, we’ll go to your smithy, to your village, look for clues. Solve this. Once for all. Once we’re out of the public eye we can stop playing this game as well. And then I can bring justice for my people.” Sherlock said almost manically.

“My smithy?” John smiled, “That’s where you want to go?”

“You won’t take me?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

***

They slipped out at noon in peasant’s garb. John took Sherlock by the backroads to the old smithy, fiddling at the side door with his rusty iron key while Sherlock chattered and pressed him on. Inside it was dark, most of the wares had been removed and only the bare bones of the old forge still stood. A few finer blades, of enhanced steel and gem inlay were hanging on the wall.

“You used to work here,” Sherlock said almost reverently.

“Yeah,” John looked around, as if in a dream, “Any clues here?”

“I’ll document for now, maybe it’ll piece together later,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, “Is this your hammer?”

“Careful, that’s heavy!” John grabbed it as Sherlock nearly dropped it on his own foot, “It shapes white-hot metal Sherlock. It’s not a plaything.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said sheepishly, “I just. I can’t imagine you here.”

“I’ve spent my life in a forge. My father was a blacksmith. His father. It’s a family trade.” John explained.

“Wow,” Sherlock plucked a sword off the wall, “Fascinating design. Yours?”

John closed the door, “Yeah. It’s funny you know. When I got married. I was supposed to come back here with my girl, there’s a chicken coop in the back. We were supposed to live here.”

“Sorry you didn’t get your girl.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve something better. My knight on a white horse.”

Sherlock blushed red, “I would have won more tourneys if I had swords like these.”

“You did the tourneys? The jousting? You?” John asked.

“Of course, you saw, I’m pretty skilled at fencing, jousting’s done on a horse, and horses are in my blood,”

“Glad you can joke about it now,” John remarked.

“I always did the tourneys to try and impress my father, the king,” Sherlock explained, “Never really worked. Now I know why. Seems like a wasted effort.”

“You want to see the rest of the house? It’s not much.” John said.

“It’s yours. Of course I want to see it. Data, John.”

“Ours, Sherlock. Your mine aren’t you? For life?”

“Suppose that is accurate.”

Sherlock marveled at the meager furnishings. At the dust mites everywhere. The cobwebs. The lack of light.

John caught him staring, “You wouldn’t possibly live with me here in a place like this.”

“I would,” Sherlock ran his fingers along the wall, searching for something, a pattern, a secret safe, a trap door.

“There’s no water pipes here. We get our water from a well in the center square. Early in the mornings I would have woken you up. We would take turns to get it. You’d manage the shop for me while I made the wares. It would have been a hard life. Not one you’re used to.” John said.

“I want—“ Sherlock started to say, “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Lucky?” John laughed suddenly, “Sherlock you grew up in a palace.”

“What difference does it make John? I was surrounded by riches. Wealth. Large cavernous rooms and halls and ballrooms for a little prince to sit in alone. Common blood or not John I’m a prince by upbringing. We’re taught to trust no one. We’re taught to think of the realm first before ourselves. Did anyone ask me, Sherlock do you want to rule? No. It was assumed. Who wouldn’t want to? Who wouldn’t want to be king? Well, maybe I don’t. Maybe I want to stay in a place like this and tend the shop while my husband makes swords. You think I would think it beneath me? You think I wouldn’t fetch the water for you? You think I wouldn’t be able to clean this place with my own two hands while you toil and toil in the burning heat of the forge? You think I would consider it beneath me to cook for you and warm your bed at night? I would John. I’d do it all without tiring and at every night I’d give myself to you as long as you needed it because I would know how hard it is for you to do the work you do. I’d do everything. I’d love to. But I can’t. Because that is a dream for myself. And I am not myself. I am the realm. I am the king.”

John didn’t know what to say to that, so he wordlessly led him back to the tiny, cramped bedroom they would have shared. He took him to the dresser and he opened it, pulling out seven gold coins.

“Commonfolk Sherlock, when they get married, the boy gives her a certain sum of money, it’s called the bridegift, I was saving for it. One at a time.”

“What is the significance of giving such a gift?”

“It means everything you have. All your efforts. Belong to the other person now. You give over your wealth to her as she leaves her family to go live with you.”

John continued. “My life savings. Everything I was. I didn’t bring it to the palace for the wedding. Because I thought you’d think it was beneath you. You being spectacularly rich and all.  But now I think you should have it.”

“It wasn’t for me. It wasn’t meant—“ Sherlock stammered.

“You couldn’t have that life, Sherlock. But you can have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posting schedule is abysmal, but I apologize...hope you enjoy this chapter!


	21. The Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees Sherlock in an unexpected light.

After Sherlock had snooped about to his heart’s content about the forge they chanced a trip to John’s village. A day’s ride there with only two trusted guards alongside them (disguised as they were) for company. All through the journey John thought about what Sherlock had said, about the weight of the crown and all its responsibilities on his head. He wanted to help him. He wanted to show him without a doubt that he was wanted and loved. And that the people would love him as John did. Not because he was a trueborn son, but because he was a capable king and rational one, the one they needed to defend themselves against M, and win a long drawn out and costly war.

At night they stopped alongside the road, next to a dense wood into which ran a small stream. They rested there. The guards set up camp, while Sherlock disappeared into the woods and John looked over the map, making sure they were on the right course to his village, and tethered the horses.

“Where did his highness go?” John asked in a low voice.

“Those woods there, sir”

“I won’t be long,” John assured them, before entering the woods himself.

It was a full moon, and there was lots of light. Crickets chirped and the grass was slightly damp with the day’s rain. A light breeze was blowing through the wood and John liked the way the sound of leaves rustling complimented the rushing water. It was a beautiful night. And John wasn’t surprised, he had been in this wood before, and it was always slightly magical, no wonder Sherlock had come.

He was surprised however, at what he saw when he entered the small clearing in the woods, a patch where the moonlight seemed to shine off the water. There, ankle deep in the gently rushing stream, stood his kingly husband, his man of ice, splashing the cool water on himself after a hot day’s ride. He was so beautiful. John gasped as he realized that his husband was standing there completely naked. John marveled at his lithe, pale body. The smooth curve of his arse, the white expanse of his back. As he turned John noticed the muscles of his bare chest, the coarse dark hair on his lower stomach, and lower…

“Did you need something?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, though the slightest bit of red had come to his cheeks.

“They-they didn’t tell me you were…” John said, not knowing what to stare and what not, and god only knew why, this was his husband for god’s sake, they were actually married.

“You can look John,”

“I-um-“

He splashed water onto his face and it dripped down the length of his naked body in sparkling rivulets, "I said you can look at me,”

"We should be getting back,"

"Right just a second. I'll get dressed, wouldn't want to shock the guards as much as I've apparently shocked you. You ever come here as a kid?"

"Several times."

"Any memorable incidents?"

"Not of the type you're referring to no."

"Good." 

***

Later in the camp John asked him, "So what was that about?"

"That's all I am John, without the trappings of royalty, and you're the only one who'll ever see it."


	22. John's Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to discover John's roots.

The next evening they reached John’s village, and left the road and the guards behind so that they could explore a bit on their own. Out in the open country Sherlock could hear various different species of birds calling out to their own kind, totally different than the calls of the city. There was more open air here too, and it was oddly quiet. He almost felt as if he had stumbled into a daydream.

“This is the old part of the village, where I was born actually; no one lives here now, soil’s not right, but in a few generations they’ll come back here.” John led Sherlock by the hand.

Sherlock looked around at the old mud huts, supported by plain wooden planks and covered with thatched straw. So this was where John had come from. He had known it was like this, but he hadn’t quite pictured it before.

“Do you remember your house?” Sherlock asked.

“By the center square.”

“Where’s the center square?”

“Isn’t one anymore, really, Sherlock. That open piece of ground there, where all the weeds are overgrown, the house behind there, I was born there.”

“Then you grew up here,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” John bounded excitedly to the house, “My mother lit the fire here, my sister and I slept here on the floor. There used to be a cot here for my father, and my grandmother and my mother slept over there.”

Sherlock had to duck his head to enter the tiny, broken down hut, “All of you lived here?”

“We had no choice. Everyone lived like that. They still do in the villages.” John pointed out.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John said, “I was always very happy.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sherlock offered.

“I always wondered what it would be like to be a prince though, my own room. You know I’ve never actually had a bed to myself in my life. At home I slept next to Harry on the floor. When I was an apprentice we slept three to a bed. In the army we slept next to each other in the trenches. Then I came back and I started sharing a bed with you.”

“You wouldn’t like it.” Sherlock said simply.

“Oh?”

“The larger the bed the emptier it is. Besides if you wake up in the middle of the night you’re alone. If it’s dark and you’re afraid of the ghosts and the monsters you’re alone. I had a giant bed, all to myself. I had an entire wing of the castle all to myself, actually. Quite grand, I suppose.”

“Lots of servants? Harry and I and the other kids played prince and princess quite a lot. We took turns playing the servants and had a fun time about it.” John laughed at the memory.

“There were a lot of other kids when you were growing up?”

“Course, peasants breed like rabbits, now don’t look at me like that, it’s only okay when I say it.” John said, “Were there any kids at the palace? The noblemen’s children?”

“No. They too were a class below me. Even when they came, they would keep their distance. Mind their courtesies.”

“It’s raining now,” John said quietly, “You want to wait a bit in here before we see some more? I’m a bit tired from all the riding.”

“I’ve never slept on the ground before.”

“It’s not so hard.” John promised.

As they both lay back in the straw Sherlock turned to John, “You know I really detested the idea of getting married.”

“I can imagine.”

“Now. I just—“

“Do you like sleeping with me in that bed, Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded just slightly, and that was all the signal John needed. He eased Sherlock into his arms so that the prince’s head was cradled against his chest. Sherlock’s heart rate raced at the proximity and he buried his face deeper into John’s warmth. He had never been held like this, he realized, and he didn’t mind at all that being so close to John he could smell the dirt they were laying in and his sweat from the ride. It just made the moment all the more real.

“You can rest now, Sherlock,” John whispered into his hair as he stroked his back gently, “Just for a little while.”

“We’re being most unproductive.” Sherlock said softly.

“We’ll make up time later.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite remember when he dozed off. It was quite strange for him, actually, falling asleep against someone like that. Yet when he came to his nose was pressed into John’s shirt collar and it was quite dark outside. He listened to the surroundings a bit and noted that it had stopped raining.

“John,” he sat up suddenly, “You have to show me more of the village.”

“Alright,” John said, “But it’s quite dark right now.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I meant to show you this anyway,” John said, “It’s not too far.”

“What do you want to show me?” Sherlock carefully picked his way through the dirt and weeds to follow John to the outskirts of the old village.

After a few minutes he was afraid he had lost him as the trees grew thick, but then John’s voice called out to him and he heard it above him.

“I’m not climbing up after you!” Sherlock protested.

“When you were a kid,” John said from in the treetops, “You never climbed trees?”

“John we are here on a very important assignment. I have to discover M’s plan. I have no time for this foolish--“

“Scared?” John taunted.

“I am most certainly not scared John. Furthermore such childish tactics will not induce me to do anything! I do not have to listen to you.”

“Oh come up your royal highness.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed dramatically, then began to climb up.

“Harder than it looks isn’t it?” John asked.

“Shut up!” Sherlock climbed up one branch, then the other and another and was almost at John’s level when felt himself beginning to, “John—“

“I’ve got you,” John pulled him up the rest of the way, until they were both sitting on a particularly thick branch near the top of the canopy.

“What?” John smiled at him, “Nice view right? You’re actually speechless. You.”

“What is this place?” Sherlock asked.

“Woods by the village. My mum and dad used to sneak up here and kiss, can you believe it? Because they didn’t want their parents to know. He was from a blacksmith’s family and her father was the village headman. Class differences, even then. It’s almost funny.”

Sherlock felt something stir in his chest as John went on, “Can you hear the wind?”

“Flowing from the East. From the capital.” Sherlock said.

“Your capital. My king.”

“John,” Sherlock said nervously, “Did you bring me up here because you wanted to kiss me again?”

“No. I’ve wanted that for a long time. I brought you up here because you’ve decided to let me again.”

“When did I say that?”

“You showed me.”

“When did I show you?”

“When I saw you naked.”

“John.”

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Kiss me again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome! I plan to update weekly.


End file.
